


Quiet

by Egleriel



Series: Simple Things [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Future Fic, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Past dub-con (mentioned), Quiet Isle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-08 06:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11641083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egleriel/pseuds/Egleriel
Summary: A savage gust tore the pilgrim's shawl from her head as Sandor admonished himself. No locks of deep, rich chestnut threaded through with bright copper and dark bronze, just ordinary brown hair on another anonymous traveller.A lord sends his pious bastard into seclusion on the Quiet Isle to prepare for her marriage. The septry is a place where penitents can learn inner truths in the silence - but in case of any doubt, a dog can smell a lie.





	1. The First Day

Sandor barely gave the figures a second glance as he lurched back to the cart. Cowl raised against the wind and rain, he secured the last barrel of turnips with a knot and hauled himself into the seat. The gale was picking up for true, whistling through the windmill to herald another winter storm in the bay. He didn't envy the boatmen, who would row back to the far bank laden with cider, honey, and mead for the morning markets. He didn't envy the passengers, either: two poor bastards who'd pulled up in a second craft, their woollens drenched by the freezing spray. They'd have an uncomfortable squelch all the way up to the main septry. The path was smooth and well-tended, but Sandor knew from bitter experience that the incline would punish a weary traveller. He wearied quickly these days.

_Ugly, bitter, and a cripple too._

When the ground froze too hard for gravedigging, they'd set Sandor to other forms of labour where his immense frame was of benefit. For the most part that meant heavy lifting when the traders rowed over to the Isle, trading the holy order's surpluses for goods the brothers couldn't make themselves. By design, the work was mindless, intended to tire the body while fostering spiritual contemplation. Sandor had spent most of his life bored out of his wits, stewing in his anger, using any break in the monotony to vent his rage: drinking, whoring, or best of all fighting. Yet the Elder Brother was unrelenting: confronting his demons was the only way to find peace, and he would never find the strength to confront them unless he accepted the light of the Seven.

Six moons had turned while Sandor strove for some searing insight to guide him back to the world. So far, he'd concluded that the gods were cunts, all men were cunts, and he was a cunt to boot. It was not news to him. 

It had to be said that the Elder Brother was less of a cunt than most - and far more to Sandor's liking than the elder brother given him by blood. He saw some splinter of integrity in Sandor's refusal to take vows and did not press the issue, not for the present at least. When the spring came, he suspected there would be a choice to be made. There could be no return to the aimless wandering that had taken him up the Kingsroad; even without the price on his head, Sandor accepted that it would not be good for him mentally either. His life was lacking in what the Elder Brother called  _purpose_. The Quiet Isle was as good a place as any to seek one. 

 

Sandor untied the barrels, catching the smallest of them one-handed before it could burst on the cobbles of the courtyard. He left the donkeys shying as he backed through the big kitchen door with the first of his burdens. It wasn't until he'd placed the fourth barrel by the pantry arch that he saw the new arrivals crest the hill. A grizzled man-at-arms and some stripling for a companion, slender and unarmoured and discernibly female. An old uncertainty sparked in Sandor's gut. For all the roughspun and the tattered cloak, there was something in the way that girl carried herself-

 _Don't be so fucking ridiculous_.

The gods seemed to share his sentiment, for a savage gust tore the pilgrim's shawl from her head as Sandor admonished himself.No locks of deep, rich chestnut threaded through with bright copper and dark bronze, just ordinary brown hair on another anonymous traveller. He shouldn't even be thinking about long auburn hair, much less hoping for a glimpse of it; that was just another unhealthy preoccupation of the Hound's, and the Hound was dead. The girl might be, too. She'd killed Joffrey, then the Imp had spirited her away and vanished from the Black Cells. Sandor allowed himself a smirk, carrying the last barrel.  _Vanishing. The latest fashion at court._  It was unlike him to follow the trends. But what did the world have left for him anyway? His brother was dead, and Ned Stark had no more daughters for him to terrify.

When he stepped out into the cold for the last time, Sandor saw the pair retreating towards the Elder Brother's cavern. They were the second group to visit in a moon's turn, which was unusually busy for the Quiet Isle. The Elder Brother would do as he always did: exchange tidings from the realm outside, succour them for a day or two, and send them on their way. The tides would keep turning, the winter would come and go, and Sandor Clegane would keep quiet.

 

The morning dawned damp and cold. Sandor shrugged into his robe, suppressing a shiver, and for a moment he was tempted to don the woollen face-wrap favoured by his silent brothers. He wondered how many of them wore it for piety, and how many wore it for warmth. He supposed he'd learn in the springtime, if he stayed to see it. Sandor slipped from the novice dormitory as quietly as he could to steal an early breakfast. He avoided the buttery at mealtimes; there was something eerie about benches filled with men, all eating in complete silence. It reminded him of the hall he grew up in. Still, there was a serenity to the silence here that he could never envisage at Clegane Keep. As the buttery began to fill up, he took his leave and shambled off for the visitors' cottages, broom in hand. A few paces up the path he remembered the girl, and realised the beehive-like cells would not be empty this morning: he would need to wait until lunchtime to approach. Sandor turned up around the hill towards the Elder Brother's quarters, the next stop on his rounds. 

Snug and simply furnished, the Elder Brother's rooms reminded Sandor of the deeper levels of Casterly Rock. He'd roomed there as a boy; it was the first place he'd known safety and his memories there were contented ones. The Hermit's Hole had the same feeling of rough-hewn comfort. Sandor started, as usual, at the alcove near the entrance where the Elder Brother prayed. Tall bookcases screened the shrine off from the rest of the warren; simple idols of the Seven, carved in driftwood, were placed in niches at head-height to a kneeling man. Sandor beat a cobweb from the Crone and began to sweep.

From the other side of the bookcases came a scrape of wood on stone and the clatter of wooden plates on a tray. It was unusual but not unprecedented for the Elder Brother to return before noon, and as expected Sandor continued about his work, though he swept a little more vigorously to alert the monk to his presence.

It  _was_ unprecedented for the Elder Brother to bring a guest back with him. 

 

"Sit, sit," said the Elder Brother, gesturing at the farthest end of the cavern. "There is more apple juice in the jug. It's good. Now, I have thought on your request and I must say, your tale leaves me a little troubled. It's true that it was once common for noblewomen to confine themselves in prayer during their betrothals. As you say, the aim was to seek the guidance of the Maiden - similar to how men beseech the Warrior before being knighted. There were vigils to all of the gods, once: women prayed to the Mother in final days before giving birth, and apprentices sought the Smith at their elevation to journeyman. I should be happy to accommodate you, of course. The custom seems worthy at such an important time in a maid's life.

"However, I am concerned that something else has brought you here. You must appreciate how it looks, Lady Alayne. You have come here unannounced, in the company of a hedge knight you claim works for your father, seeking sanctuary. You do not seem eager to contact your father, leaving such matters to your man-at-arms. I knew Ser Lothor many years ago, before I was godsworn, but you, my lady, I do not know. What brings you onto the roads in winter with only the clothes on your back? What is Lothor Brune to you?"

 

The Elder Brother's tone was softer than his words. A grim smile crossed Sandor's lips: of course the Elder Brother would be concerned with the girl's  _virtue_  before all else. The Elder Brother had fallen from knighthood at the Ruby Ford, and the passage so many years were like to have changed this Lothor Brune as much as any man.  _Lothor Brune..._ the name rang a bell, but placing it was proving beyond him.

The girl's voice came quietly, and it was composed and courteous despite the unsavoury line of questioning. Sandor's broom faltered for a moment.

 

"Ser Lothor... reminded me of someone else who protected me, once."

 

 _Seven hells_. 

Then reason reasserted itself, just as it had the previous evening. Sandor had never known any Lady Alayne, brown-haired or otherwise. If her voice seemed familiar, it could only be the jape of an overactive imagination. A trick of a guilty conscience, desperate for absolution.

 

"Your lord father? A young man before your betrothal, mayhaps?"

"You mistake me, my lord. Ser Lothor is a faithful retainer to my lord father, and has remained so in all the time that I've known him. He has served me as honourably as an anointed knight should. And as to the other man... there is not much to say. Simply that Lothor Brune is not the first man who saved me from rapers and offered to take me away from danger."

 

Trick or not, the girl's voice affected Sandor like icewater running down his spine. It was uncannily familiar.  _Is this some fucked-up dream?_ He had to leave. Quickly.

 

"That man was not a suitor, or a knight for that matter. He took a song and a kiss and my refusal, and I never saw him again. Ser Lothor has something of his decency, I think. He certainly shares my concerns for my immediate safety, and he shares Lord Baelish's regard for discretion. The circumstances are unconventional, but-"

 

Heart hammering, Sandor pulled the door to as quietly as he could and stood thunderstruck beneath the sails of the windmill. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, then realised he'd left his broom inside.


	2. The Second Day

It had all spilled forth, then. Ensconced in the Elder Brother's cell, lulled by good food and sympathy, Alayne told her story.

How her father had tried to keep her away from the games of the high lords - games that the motherhouse never prepared her for. With Lord Baelish away often, she was surrounded by men she did not know and intrigues she did not understand. Not all of the men serving Lord Arryn treated Littlefinger's natural daughter kindly. She told the Elder Brother of the bard Ser Lothor had pulled off her, of Ser Shadrich and his threats, of the smiling man who travelled with her lord father and asked for favours she misliked giving. And now her betrothed, who liked her not. Mournfully, she took care to labour the disparity in their stations: she, the baseborn daughter of an upjumped lordling, was to wed the heir to the Vale. It would be too easy for a man of ill-intent to waylay a maiden, and thwarted innocence would be enough to unravel so tenuous a match. 

"Ser Harrold deserves a wife who is above suspicion," Alayne gushed. "He is a good man, handsome and gallant, but some of his companions are... less so. My father worries that they could plan something dreadful to wreck the match, in the hopes of gaining favour."

She shuddered at the very thought, which had been so much nearer than anyone knew. Her lord father had taken a great deal of convincing, and she had Ser Lothor to thank for unexpectedly backing her. She suspected Ser Lothor knew something of the smiling man and his demand for kisses - yet another side of the Lord Protector, a mask as changeable as Petyr and Littlefinger. Even for a catspaw as faithful as Ser Lothor, there were lines a liege should not cross: sacrifices a girl should not be forced to make. 

 

 _Crossbows_ thrummed _and Ser Dontos crumpled between the oars as torchlight flickered over the rippling water and her faithless Florian._

_"Singer. Best go, if you want to sing again," said a rough voice, blade glinting in his hand._

_A different blade in a different hand, and a harsher voice rasped, "Enough."_

 

Men's loyalties were a complicated thing, she knew, but Lord Petyr seemed to complicate them more than most. Lady Waynwood continued to delay in setting a date for the wedding, hoping no doubt that her ward would inherit the Vale before any vows were exchanged or debts called. Alayne suggested other schemes that would keep her from Harry's reach and from the even more immediate threat of the smiling man's attentions, but Petyr had not taken the bait. Risky plans, the sort that hung on wild chances, were his stock-in-trade. Her idea of standing a Maiden's Vigil had seemed a desperate throw, but mayhaps the gods were listening for true, for at last Petyr relented. It was fortunate that Ser Lothor - of all people - knew the elder brother at a septry; returning to Gulltown would have risked inviting new and unanswerable questions about Alayne's childhood. Ser Lothor been a true ally to her in all of this.

The Elder Brother was unperturbed by her request to stay indefinitely, which surprised her. After almost a moon on the road, it seemed impossibly decadent to take refuge in a place where her only obligations were those of her own body: sleep, food, and reflection. Indeed, if every day could be so restful as this one, her time here could be the happiest she'd known since she was a young girl.

 

Once dismissed from the Elder Brother's presence, Alayne bathed, walked the whole island, and then ate again. Her feet took her to the sept, with its pretty leaded glass and rich timber smell. She found it difficult to focus on her prayers: it had been so long since she had been content with her situation, and not needed to concoct a scheme that might improve her situation. Mayhaps that was how Petyr always felt.

Alayne had found herself getting better at divining his true goals whenever he shared plans with her, however it was rare for him to give her enough detail to draw conclusions. He desired her admiration as much as he wanted her touch, and never missed an opportunity to praise his own cleverness. The more Alayne saw of him, the more she recognised the patterns in Littlefinger's plotting.  _It does not take a genius to manipulate weak men._ Alayne had a few ideas of her own on that theme.

 

Over supper, the proctor read from the holy book while Brother Dobbin plucked a lute in accompaniment, picking out the strains of hymns relevant to the themes in the passage. Tonight's reading came from the Red Book, dedicated to the Warrior, and in it King Hugor ventured deep into the Velvet Hills and slew the sirens that dwelt in a lake there, spurning their favours and toppling the blasphemous altar where they beguiled itinerant shepherds into sin.

Alayne let the words wash over her and allowed her eyes to wander around the buttery. She wondered what had happened to these men to call them to the Faith. Identically clad in their dun-and-brown robes, most of the brothers had the wiry look of men long past their prime, living out their days with only the Seven for solace. Hale elders, she guessed, with no family to comfort them, glad of the diversion manual work could give. A handful - including the Elder Brother himself - bore the broad build of fighting men beneath those robes. Alayne regarded them with curiosity. How long since they traded swords for silence?

Heads remained bowed to their plates while Proctor Willem droned on, and Alayne could not see their faces properly. The brothers rarely lifted their eyes to each other's faces, well-practiced at moving around one another without words. The little that was not obscured by their deep cowls gave her scarcely any clue as to what they had been before: common or noble, peasant or knight, wolf or lion or something else. Thick blond curls fell from one brother's hood, not shorn as short as the others; a relatively new arrival, she guessed. Off to her left, a particularly tall brother bent his head so low that only a large hooked nose could be seen from the depths of his robe. Of Ser Lothor, she could see no sign. He was due to depart for Saltpans on the morning tide and must have retired early.

_A simple 'farewell' would have been nice. There is such a thing as too much quiet._

Proctor Willem made no sermon after the reading, letting the gods' words stand for themselves. Alayne supposed each brother had ample time to contemplate the meaning of the episode for himself. Out in the wider world, a septon would usually interpret the meaning of the passage for his flock - a lesson for each man and woman to take back into ordinary life when the service ended. Alayne was quite sure the sermons oft said more about the septon than about the story, for every sept she'd been to proposed a radically different lesson from the same passage.

Having supped, most of the brothers went to the sept for evening prayers. It seemed _wrong_ , somehow: familiar, and yet alien. The pews, the statues, the candles, the light, the smell of incense - and yet there was something deeply unsettling about a sept full of people with no chanted prayers and no choral hymns. Though the brothers were entirely at peace, Alayne found the atmosphere too intense, too pregnant with frustrated devotion, too uncanny to tolerate. Overwhelmed, her head spinning, she edged from the pew and fled into the night.

 

She hurried down the twilit path that led towards her sleeping-cell. The Elder Brother had called it a cottage, but it was closer in size and style to the hermits' hideaways that Robb had once pointed out to her up in the Barrow Hills... _No, that couldn't be. I don't know who showed them to me, and it must have been in the hills between Gulltown and Iron Oaks, where the Vale became the Fingers_. Alayne rested a hand on the door to her cottage.

Away from the anchors of those who knew her, Alayne felt her sense of self slipping. The line between what she knew and what she was meant to know was blurring; the gulf between Alayne and that other girl was closing. 

Waves lapped on the shore, windblown and uneven. Alayne shut her eyes. She needed to feel something truer and bigger than herself. She breathed in deep, anchoring herself to the path beneath her feet, feeling the cold air on her face, the tendrils of hair lifting around her ears. If only the wind and waves could wash her clean of all the lies. There was a simplicity to the lives of the silent brothers that seemed pure and righteous and easy. She could wash or mend to earn her keep; cut her hair and wear roughspun, see out the war in this little cell with only the gods watching over her. She need not utter another falsehood, need not watch as he pressed her palm to his breeches and-

Sansa took to her heels, running as fast as her slippers would take her towards the shore. The moon was rising, large and bright, casting a broad band of silver over the rivermouth. Beyond, the dim glow atop the castle walls was all that could be seen of Saltpans, and from the north bank of the Trident the wind blasted cold and strong. Without regard for her only dress, Sansa fell to her knees in the muck and felt tears spill from her eyes. A northern wind to cleanse her; the touch of a wind that had caressed the places she called home on its way to reach her. Jon at the Wall, and then Winterfell, and Tallhart and White Harbour and every place where she'd ever known love and light and laughter in her five-and-ten years. It made no matter that the same wind had had to come through the Vale, past Littlefinger and Harry: they could not sully it. The breeze carried the whisper of the Old Gods called to her. The wind could be her godswood; the island was her sept. 

She shut her eyes, as her father had done before the heart tree. If there was a proper structure to entreaties to the Old Gods, Sansa had never known it, but she doubted they would frown on the form she learned from her mother.

 

Sansa thought of all those who were lost to her. The dead, the guests of the Stranger: her mother, her father, and all three of her brothers. The living, or so she hoped, and their travails in the ways of the Maiden and the Warrior, who watched over the young: her sister Arya and their bastard brother Jon. The grown, whose lives were shattered and their safety held in the hands of the Smith: she prayed for her uncle Lord Edmure and her protector Ser Lothor. The lost, in need of the guidance: she prayed the Crone would guide her husband Tyrion, wherever he was. The sinful, who deserved judgement: she asked the Father to turn his gaze upon Petyr, and Harry, and Cersei, and Theon. And finally, the prayers she held closest to her heart: for the mercy of the Mother.

The wind dropped then, and blew afresh from the sea carrying a spatter of icy rain with it. The spell was broken.

Sansa shivered, all at once feeling the wetness in her knees and backside. She climbed to her feet. The wind no felt longer sacred, but harsh and cold. A storm was howling in from the Bay of Crabs, and no god would forgive her foolishness if she stayed out to catch a chill. Feeling rather foolish, yet still somehow calmed, she turned away from the water and made for the row of cottages. The windmill kept turning, its sails casting tall shadows down the slope towards her. Sansa thought she glimpsed movement in the gloom - the lurch of a large shape in the trees beyond the women's cottages - but as she reached her own door, she saw there was no-one there.


	3. The Third Day

Sandor slept fitfully. He woke every few hours to a feeling of deep apprehension; it took some time to remember what it was that troubled him, and then some more time to calm the dread and joy roiling within enough to sleep. 

 

A familiar gait, a similar voice, a strange mention of a man who took a song – such trivialities could be coincidental, he'd known. And so he’d braved the buttery last night, and even went so far as to attend sunset prayers, but to no avail: the girl stayed tantalisingly out-of-sight. Somehow she was always turning away whenever he stole a glance. It tormented him, the knowledge that _she_ could be right under his nose. There was an even worse prospect: that this visitor was an absolute stranger to him, and then he’d have to deal with the depths of his own fixation with a woman who was probably dead, or most like hated him if she wasn’t.

Still, neither option was chosen for him yet, as long as he could remain uncertain. Lightheaded, with the moon bright in the sky, he’d gone to the top of the hill hoping for a glimpse of this Alayne’s face before she retired. He’d nearly missed her. When the glimpse came, she was walking straight towards him from the shoreline, hair wild and damp from the wind. His head had swum as if soused from strongwine and he’d gripped the treebranch so hard the wood had crunched beneath his fingers.

He knew that face, and it belonged to no _Alayne_.

  

He spent the next day chopping timber and trying to unpick what it all meant, cursing himself for fleeing the Hermit’s Hole with so little information. She was alive, she was near, and she was decidedly _not_ with the Imp. If anything, the situation was worse than that: Petyr Baelish was involved.

It seemed Littlefinger had finally got his hands on her. It wasn’t for want of trying: Sandor had been there the day Ned Stark was taken, stood guard at the Small Council meeting that followed. Littlefinger had offered to take the girl to wife, and even at that time Sandor marked it as odd. Cersei swatted the suggestion aside on the grounds that the girl hadn’t even flowered, but they all knew Littlefinger’s birth had more to do with it. He’d been granted Harrenhal after the Blackwater, or so Sandor heard. Maybe that had erased the stain of having a sellsword for a grandsire.

 

Did that make Baelish the father or the betrothed? How could she even _be_ betrothed if she was wed to the Imp? Sandor thought the Elder Brother would have told him if there were tidings of the Imp’s death.

 _Wouldn’t he?_  

The Elder Brother made no secret of his wish to keep Sandor on the Quiet Isle until Sandor found the Seven. He certainly wasn’t keeping the brothers abreast of the latest gossip from the Red Keep. Sandor felt more at sea than ever. 

 

“It is good to see you back at table, novice,” said the Elder Brother approvingly, catching Sandor after sunset prayer. The girl had not been there tonight. “You've been eating alone for three moons, yet I have marked you on the benches at every meal for the past two days. Have the gods blessed you with a new insight to stir you from solitude?”

 _You have no idea._ “I felt the need of some company. It might not last.”Sandor forced the stiffness from his shoulders. No good keeping his voice nonchalant if his body was going to give the game away.

“I hope that it does; companionship will do you good. You remain in my prayers, Sandor.”

“You’ve done enough for me,” he said gruffly. 

“I’ve done only what was within my power. You are not yet all that you could be - in body and more importantly in spirit. You are no longer the Hound, but I fear you are not yet Sandor Clegane. I beg that the gods will set your feet upon your life’s path, in time.”

“Stranger things have been found on this island,” he muttered sullenly. He regretted it at once, feeling the Elder Brother start at his elbow.

“Rest well, novice,” said the Elder Brother softly. “The snows will soon be upon us. You will need all your strength.”

Sandor bowed his head and waited for the monk to move on, then did as he was bid.

 

He lay awake in the novice dormitory in fierce debate with himself. All he knew for sure was that the girl hid her name and was being sheltered by Littlefinger. Maybe she was widowed, maybe there was a betrothal, but for one reason or another she was hiding from her new false life on the Quiet Isle. The girl he’d remembered had been pious enough, always skipping off to the sept or returning from the godswood at strange hours. She used prayer the way men used wine: to set her troubles at a distance and gain a moment's peace. It irked Sandor how one escape was seen as virtue and the other as a vice, for the self-deception was the just same.

Sandor did not share the brothers’ desire to shove his fate into someone else’s hands. It struck him as a form of cowardice to _choose_ to rely on a force other than oneself. All his life he’d heard septons and brothers speak of the courage it took to trust in the gods. Experience had taught him that little could be trusted bar the propensity of men to commit cruelty; his trust in _that_ had been rewarded with survival. He’d seen plenty of godly men have their faith rewarded with death. 

The brothers here sheltered Sandor all the same and deserved no ill-will, and so he kept his disdain to himself. There _was_ a kind of peace on the Quiet Isle. He _had_ learned something about himself since coming here. He gave the credit to his own mind, though, not to any gods. There was no need to dishonour the Elder Brother with naked disagreement on that score.

 

The blond Riverlander was already asleep, but the older man with missing fingers had not yet started to snore. The chamber was designed to sleep eight novices on the ground floor; a larger room next door had space for visitors, while the two upper floors housed the full brotherhood with row after row of simple bunks. Sandor had commandeered a second bed, and had to sleep at an awkward diagonal just to fit.

Every impulse he owned was telling him to climb the hill at the first sign of a snore, but his head asked him what good it could possibly do. So what if the girl was Sansa Stark? What interest could she have in seeing him? He’d not exactly been _pleasant_ to her in all that time Joff was beating her in King’s Landing. Aye, in fairness, he’d tried to keep her from the worst of Joff’s abuses – sharp of her to spot that – but he’d hardly treated her with honour either. 

_That man was not a suitor, or a knight for that matter. He took a song and a kiss and my refusal, and I never saw him again._

Trust the little bird to pretty it up for the Elder Brother’s ears. He'd gone to her in the depths of his disgrace, and even now it would've been hard for him to say what he'd wanted from her. Terror and drink rendered the memory hazy. If it was only a wench he wanted, he wouldn't have gone to  _her._  Battle had a funny way of lowering inhibitions, but not as far as that. It unmanned him to think of it, the desperation of it. He could make any excuse he liked about wanting to save her like some witless cunt from a song, but the truth was he'd gone to the one person who might possibly have a kind word for him. The only soul naive enough to think the Hound deserved to be addressed with any courtesy.

But the fire in the sky, the panic in the Red Keep...  _her_ armour was off, too, and she hadn't chirped for him like he wanted. When he pulled her to him like the captive princess she was, she only flinched; he'd known then that the kind of regard he wished for was beyond even the little bird's compassion. Had he kissed her anyway? He was  _sure_ he would've remembered that. He'd meant to do it. And he must have, if she remembered it. He'd pulled a knife on her then and demanded a song - an actual song, not the kind he'd really wanted - since it was clear she'd never be willing to give him anything else.

She didn't sing 'Florian and Jonquil', like the stupid child he'd thought her in that moment. She should've screamed, if she valued her hide. She could've wept, if she'd been as weak as he believed. Instead, she sang, and it wasn't a silly romance but the Mother's hymn. That sweet, quavering voice, begging the gods to soothe his rage. Compassionate. Courteous. His anger had melted away, replaced by hollow shame. He'd burst into the girl's chambers, put a knife to her throat and taunted her, and  _still_ she showed him grace and forgiveness. She deserved better than King's Landing could give her, and she deserved a better saviour than he could ever be.

 

And now, she was  _here_. 

 

The breeze was insistent tonight, but the rain was holding off. Clouds scudded before the moon's waxing gibbous, dappling the grass with shadow. He found the same vantage point as before, but could see no sign of life in the cottage; no sconced candle burning in the window to show she was there. The thatch obscured most of the mucky sward behind and he could see no movement at the water's edge beyond.

Sandor followed the treeline across the face of the cottages and then crossed into the oaken copse that ran along their southern perimeter, right down to the shore. Not for the first time, he wondered what the fuck the girl was doing, kneeling in the mud in the hour of the bat. Then again, it was at least as odd for him to be creeping through the woods by night to look at some defenceless girl. Odd, if not downright sinister. He passed around the bole of another tree as the shadows shifted, and there she was, a white face bowed into the wind, low enough to stay sheltered in a hooded cloak of dark grey. Brown hair or no, he'd have known that face anywhere, from any distance. Still a pretty thing, whatever she'd been put through. High cheekbones, straight nose, full lips moving soundlessly. Deep in her sleeves she seemed to be fumbling. 

_Is she praying to her northern gods, or is this something else? Is there someone on the water?  Wreckers and smugglers signal each other with mirrors and moonlight..._

It sickened him to think of her complicit in the kind of games Littlefinger, the Imp and the Spider all played. She was supposed to be better than that, in his mind; somehow above the petty jockeying and politicking. Preoccupied with chivalry and needlework, like an innocent little lady.  

He didn't know how long he watched, how long he debated whether or not to go to her. The last thing Sandor wanted was to frighten the girl; if this was prayer, and brought her calm, then he had no right to shatter the peace - no right to invade this moment any further than he already had. And yet...

* * *

 

Sansa rose from her knees, shivering. Something in the air had changed, and it was not only the unwelcome smell of rain. She felt... _watched,_ ridiculous as the idea was.

Her slippers were completely ruined already, but with them soaked through she could think of nothing more welcome than warming her feet by the fireside. She had to life her feet high to move through the mud at any speed. The wind scythed colder than ever and it smelled of rain to come. As she rounded the corner of the cottage, she felt a large, firm hand on her shoulder. Her insides squirmed in panic.

"Lady Alayne," said a rough voice. 

"Ser Lothor."  _How can I possibly explain this?_  "I did not expect to see you so soon."

"Your lord father has business for me elsewhere." He frowned, glancing at her muddy knees, but he did not remark on them. "You should be safe here, my lady, but I need to ask you not to draw attention to yourself. I can vouch for the Elder Brother - not for the others he chooses to receive. We may not be the only visitors here between now and your wedding. I trust you are content here for now?"

"I am. The Elder Brother has left me some hymnals and commentaries on the Violet Book, but I find it strange to be so unoccupied. Do you think it would be unwise if I asked for some tasks or chores? Sewing and so on."

"As you will, my lady. Never forget that the Queen is still seeking you - if you can do your sewing in your cottage, then that would be best. You are safest in your own company."

"I will keep that in mind, ser," said Alayne softly. "Did you fare well in Saltpans? Is there any news that I should know?"

"Your father sends his good wishes. I make for Claw Isle at first light."

 _The Celtigar deal must be firming up._ "Then I will not detain you, ser. The hour is late."

"It is," grumbled Ser Lothor. "Be safe, my lady."

"And you."

With that Alayne shut the door, and lit the candle, and as she fell asleep she forgot that she was not Sansa Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the tease! Next chapter, I pinky-promise.


	4. The Fourth Day

The daylight found Sansa sprawled across her pallet long after the Isle broke its fast. A series of sharp raps on the door drew her upright, and while she thanked the gods she'd crashed out fully clothed, there was nothing at all she could do with her snarled hair on her way to the door.

"Elder Brother," she croaked, blinking in the morning glare. 

"I missed you at breakfast, Lady Alayne," he said, mercifully free of reproach. "I had a visit from Ser Lothor before he left. He tells me you are keen to take on some of our mending."

"I was reflecting on the story of Prince Rayor and felt eager to make myself useful," said Alayne shyly.

"A sound moral," nodded the Elder Brother with a beatific smile.  "Ser Lothor also discussed his worries about the secrecy of your visit."

"He urged me to rely on my own company," Alayne blushed. "I hope he did not speak out of turn in any way, Brother."

"No more than expected. If I may be frank with you, his concerns are not mine: there are no spies or informants on the Quiet Isle. I would swear it by the Father and the Crone. That being said, if you are to be with us for some time, there is another worry. My brothers are not used to having women among them for longer than a day or two. I should prefer not to disrupt their routine or disturb any equilibrium. As it please you, my lady, I would ask you to save your visits to the sept for mealtimes, when the brothers will be occupied elsewhere. You are welcome in the buttery whenever hunger calls you. And the brothers tending the cottages and their gardens will be relieved of their duties while you stay here."

Alayne clasped her hands. "That sounds sensible, Elder Brother. I have no wish to put anyone out. And... my chores?"

"There is plenty of mending to be done. I will see to it that the brothers in the laundry set aside a few items for you. We will leave a basket for you in the buttery to work on back here."

"I am most grateful to you, Elder Brother," said Sansa sincerely. "I will be sure not to neglect my prayers, though I feel sure it will do me good to keep myself busy during my reflections."

He glanced around the cell she called home, clearly approving of her neatly-folded cloak and slippers drying on the hearth. Had he looked closely, he would have seen a page marker thrust about a third of the way through the Violet Book of the Seven-Pointed Star, which was concerned with the Maiden.

The Elder Brother had given her two devotionals to read alongside it: one by Septon Woggin, written in the time of the third Aegon, and a later volume by Septon Laerd dating from the reign of the second Viserys. If Sansa remembered her lessons correctly, that meant Woggin's ideas were in circulation when King Baelor the Blessed locked his sisters in the Maidenvault, while Laerd wrote his book shortly after that king died without an heir. It certainly explained Septon Laerd's somewhat _earthier_ take on what it meant to have a strong and godly marriage. It flustered her a little to imagine what Laerd might have written of some of the stories in the Mother's book, though she didn't suppose that would be part of her vigil.

"Is there any part of the text so far that you are struggling with?" asked the Elder Brother.

"Not yet," she admitted. "I have been having a little trouble with Septon Laerd. He uses so many... agricultural analogies. I think I am taking his meaning, but I fear there are nuances that are lost to one raised in the town."

Something perilously close to amusement flitted across the Elder Brother's broad face.

"You have nothing to fear on that account, my lady. Layered nuance was not a hallmark of Septon Laerd's writing, _many_ though his virtues were. It may be that there are more modern texts, but it is so long since the Maiden's Vigil was observed that I thought it safer to use the traditional texts. I believe most young ladies found Septon Woggin more difficult. Most young ladies did not have the benefit of your education, of course."

"The septas were very kind to me," said Alayne modestly.

Yet in her heart, Sansa knew that for all her kindness, poor Septa Mordane had taught her nothing of use about the ways of men and women. Her dear kind septa had ended with her head on a pike, and those who taught Sansa the truth with their cruelty had yet to face to Father’s justice.

 

* * *

 

 

Sandor felt his heart sink.

He'd had a visit from Proctor Narbert in the dormitories to say that the women's cottages would no longer require his attention, and he knew Brother Donnel had been told not to bother clipping the lawns there either. There'd been no sign of her at sunrise prayers. She had not joined the men in the buttery to break her fast, nor partaken of gruel at noon. And now, taking a bench at dinner, he knew at once that she was not there either. To make matters worse…

 _Oh, fuck. Anything but that._  

Brother Janos and his fucking pipes to accompany the reading. The din alone was enough to put him off his pottage, even without the gnawing panic in his gut.

Something had happened. What the fuck had Brune said to her in the dead of night? He’d replayed the scene over and over in his mind, hoping to understand what might have transpired between them, but to no avail. The thought that he’d lost her – again - tormented him, a toxic stew of yawning emptiness and impotent rage.

Had the fucking gods really dangled her before him, only to snatch her away so soon? If so, it was a move so vicious he might have to accept they could be real.

Appetite scuppered, Sandor lurched to his feet before the food was even brought out. He ignored the judgemental stares of his brothers and stomped into the courtyard, seizing a flagon of mead as he went. He wanted solitude – true solitude. A lifetime of castle living had taught him that privacy could always be found, even in the most crowded places. A lone figure was conspicuous, but a drunk man in an alcove would never be bothered by passers-by. Particularly when that drunk man was almost seven feet of anger, scar and hard muscle.

These rages were getting less and less frequent, which probably said something about the Elder Brother’s treatment. It had been a couple of moons since he last let bitterness consume him, and he’d found a good spot to wallow that time.

He went to the sept. It would be full of brothers once dinner ended, but the belfry was something like a sanctuary-within-a-sanctuary. Just one storey above the main portico, the little belfry was screened off from both courtyard and temple by slatted windows, and housed a clear-toned bell not much bigger than the helm the Hound once wore. With difficulty, Sandor climbed the rickety ladder. The improvement in his leg made the climb easier than the last occasion, though he muttered a curse as a splash of mead covered his hand in stickiness.

Through the slats, Sandor had a decent view of the yard and altars without being visible himself. He took a deep draught of the mead. It wasn’t as strong as what he wanted, but six moons without wine had lowered his resistance and he knew he’d get the desired result. He just needed to be numb for a few hours. Immune to his own circular arguments and conflicts until the moon rose and he could tramp through the woods one last time.

_It’ll be another disappointment, of course. She’s gone. I missed her. There was nothing I could have done for her, now or before, and as for words… words are wind. I said nothing, for there was nothing to say._

_So why does this feel so much like failure?_

 

“Stranger, I beg you to give peace to those who have passed. For Father, for Mother, for Robb, for Bran and Rickon.”

The voice was incredibly soft and was not intended for his ears, or that of any mortal. Sandor stopped breathing. He leaned as far as he dared without risking the floorboard creaking, twisting for a view down into the sept. For the third time in as many days, he was spying on Sansa Stark’s prayers, but this was the first time he’d heard what she prayed for.

_And who._

Around the huge brazier at the heart of the sept were arranged shallow baskets of candles. Lighting four, the girl stepped to the altar of the Stranger – just feet from Sandor’s hiding-place – and placed the candles reverently in a line.

She returned to the centre of the sept and turned to the next statue.

“Warrior, I beg you to give courage to those who must fight. My brother Jon, and my uncle Edmure, if they fight still.”

 _A long-shot, there._ Last Sandor heard, Ned Stark’s bastard had been in command on the Wall, though the situation at Riverrun was anyone’s guess.

“Maid, I beg you to give protection to those who lack strength. My sister Arya. I hope she lives.”

Sandor grinned then, warmth and mirth stabbing through him. _Should be placing her candle before the Warrior, little bird. Strength is not what she lacks._ He didn’t doubt that the girl still lived. If the lightning lord was managing to live on fire alone, Arya Stark could keep going out of sheer spite.

“Smith, I beg you to give safety to those who are broken. For Tyrion, wherever he is in the world.”

His fist curled painfully around the flagon’s handle. _She’s supposed to hate the Imp. Why the_ fuck _doesn’t she hate the Imp?_

“Crone, I beg you to give wisdom to those who are lost. Theon, our foster-brother once, if you can reach him.”

_Devious, that one. Begging that the Greyjoy lad grows wise enough to feel ashamed of himself._

“Father Above,” said the little bird. Her voice was stronger now, emboldened by the silence, and it trembled with emotion. Sandor’s heart went out to her. “I beg you to give justice to those who are deserving.”

She lit three candles in a shaking hand. _Praying hard for that judgement, isn’t she? What in seven hells has been done to her?_

Each squat candle was almost banged onto the altar, the raps of the candle-holders punctuating the names.

“Cersei.”

“Petyr.”

“Harry.”

A movement below caught Sandor’s eye; his fellow novice, the blond one, was hastening through the portico with characteristic eagerness. _Loves his bloody evening prayers, that one._ The lad passed so aggressively that his elbow caught the ladder’s foot. Sandor managed to clutch the top rung before disaster struck, but in the moment’s panic he almost missed the final prayer.

 “The Hound.”

Sandor felt his mouth go dry. He was torn, overjoyed to still have a place in her thoughts whatever the context, but furious and wounded to discover she thought of him in the same breath as Cersei and fucking Baelish.

Light, shuffling footsteps passed below Sandor’s spot as he glared into the sept. Almost unseeing, he stared at the altar of the Father, where she’d begged for the sound divine judgement of those who wronged her.  _Cersei, Petyr, Harry… the Hound._ But only three lights flickered on the Father’s altar.

He had not seen her light the last candle - the candle for himself, the candle for the man he had been and might be still, for good or ill. That flame was still guttering in the turbulent air stirred by her hasty exit, and its light was shining beneath the open arms of the Mother.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The last few brothers were crossing to the sept as Sansa rounded the windmill, and it was only then that she slackened her pace. The day’s labour had succeeded in wearying her limbs, if not her thoughts. Though it felt good to be useful, it seemed unfair that the brothers – some of them old men – had to be out toiling in the sleet while she could sit comfortably by the fire, with no more annoyance than the snapping and smoking of damp firewood.

In truth, she was not yet ready to return to her cottage and its infernal eye-streaming woodsmoke. She ducked inside and lit the candle on the windowsill, then grabbed the small boots of canvas and leather she’d been repairing this morning. Though still far too large for her dainty feet, they were sturdy enough to take her down to the shore – and maybe stay longer than she'd managed these past few nights in her ruined slippers.

The long-dead septons and their smug reflections on ‘the role of woman’ could wait another hour.

She felt better for repeating her prayers in the sept. For all that she welcomed the north wind and the Old Gods, she was half a Tully of Riverrun too: the lapping of the Trident and the smell of the sept were also a part of her.

The leathern soles held well as she tramped through the wet muck of the greensward. The grass was probably a fine little meadow in the summertime. In the bleakness of winter, it felt like a sort of rough walled garden flanked by the oak groves, with the cottages at her back and the river before. A cold mist was rising on the water. Sansa found a line of silt piled high between the riverbank and the greensward, firmer than the mud on either side like a bench put there by nature. Wet and filthy though it was, Sansa sat. Her cowl fell as she threw back her head, allowing the cold east wind to ripple in her hair.

More importantly, she could see the stars. It put her in mind of another night, by another river, long ago. There had been smoke in the air that night, not mist; the sky had shimmered with eerie green light and she’d prayed for the Hound then, too. She had not thought of him for some time, not since the time Sweetrobin held his Tourney of the Wings. It was hard to credit that barely two moons had turned since that day.

_The first time I met Harry. He won the melee, just about, and I couldn’t stop thinking of how the Hound described Joffrey’s name-day tourney. ‘A tourney of gnats.’ He’d have said the same of Harry and his callow rivals._

And the Hound wouldn’t have let Harry corner her the way he did at the most recent feast, touch her as he did. She’d said no, slapped him, but he only caught her hand and slapped her back. Handsome, charming, noble Harry, who shoved her down and demanded her maidenhead _now_ if she wanted his hand later. If not for Mya…

When she spoke to the Elder Brother, she thought it odd how he asked about the unnamed protector from her youth, and the nature of her companionship with Ser Lothor. However, with the readings he’d set her for her vigil, it now made a certain amount of sense.

Septon Woggin had read as much of courtly romance as Sansa, where every chance word seemed to be a hidden declaration of love. Court must have been far more thrilling in his day, when something so mundane as the arrangement of a lady’s handkerchief could be evidence of a clandestine attachment. He argued that a lady's first youthful infatuations set the course for her future happiness, and therefore a maiden's heart should not be given any more generously than her innocence. Sansa was in no doubt that Joffrey’s court would have utterly scandalised Septon Woggin, even if he looked no further than Sansa's own experience - like Ser Arys and his gossip or Ser Dontos’ theatrical kisses. Let alone the abuse she’d suffered at the hands of the king and his knights… and later Petyr’s groping, Harry’s insistence…

No, for all that he had startled her, despite the way terrified her at the very end, Sandor Clegane had only begged a song when his blade was at her throat. All this time later, a woman grown and wedded, the Hound remained the only man she’d ever _allowed_ to kiss her.

Tasked with learning the Faith’s ideas about burgeoning womanhood, it was no surprise that he was in her thoughts. 

And she _did_ hope he was safe and well, wherever he was, and whatever he’d become.

 

* * *

 

 

That flagon of mead be damned: never in his life had Sandor felt so sober. He hid in the belfry until sunset prayers were over, then climbed carefully down the creaking ladder. His robe was white with the dust of the belfry floor, and it whipped behind him as he stalked unsteadily down the hill. He made for the landing-dock, which was on the wrong side of the windmill from the little bird’s cottage.  It did, however, afford him the use of the coastal path through the trees, so a watcher in the dormitories – or, worse, from the Hermit’s Hole – would never see him through the trees, hives, or vines.

The Elder Brother _knew._ He had to.

The fucker knew far more than he would admit about Sandor’s guilt over the girl. As soon as Sandor’s fevered rambling stopped, the Elder Brother took pains to impress it upon Sandor that he’d never _loved_   Sansa Stark, that he'd only ever thought of her as a route to redemption.

_Fuck love. Fuck redemption._

She was better than any of that.

Maybe he could have forgotten her, with time, but not _now_. Not with what he’d heard, not with the knowledge that he was still in her head for some reason. If the Elder Brother wanted him to put her behind him, then Sandor needed to close the book for himself. He needed to look the girl in her pretty face and _see_ her disgust. He had to face her anger or pity or whatever it was head-on. Apologise for his vanity and selfishness, though doing so was vain and selfish in itself for it gave nothing to _her._

And he _would_ see her. He’d been lucky these past two evenings, finding her in the night. He’d resolved to circle round the shore, and if she was not looking out over the water then he’d bloody well knock on her cottage door, propriety be damned.

He was so intent that as he strode from the trees into the misty open, he nearly tripped over her.

* * *

 

With her eyes bent skywards, Sansa noticed the rambler no sooner than he noticed her. A huge shape in a dun-and-brown brother’s robe, he had the uneven gait of a man lamed, but moved with a speed and force that did not match the bearing she'd expect in a crippled holy man. She leapt to her feet to get out of his way, but her ill-fitting boot slid in the mud and she nearly toppled over. A hand shot out of the darkness, seizing her wrist and wrenching it up to steady her.

“Little bird,” hissed a voice from another life.

Sansa felt her eyes go wide, and she nearly went reeling again. “You- _how?_ ”

“A ‘thank you’ would be more courteous,” he rasped, setting her on her feet.

The huge shape folded its arms, roughspun cowl shifting. Moonlight crept over black and purple scars that were every bit as unlovely as she remembered; as much a part of that familiar face as its hooked nose and heavy brow.  She found the image no more shocking or strange than her own reflection.

“I thought I was alone out here. I’m glad to see you,” she realised aloud, a little too breathlessly. Sansa softened her tone and stepped a little closer to the huge brother, raising her hood against the cold. “Are you... well?”

“Alive, am I not?” he grunted, but there was a warmth in his eyes that Sansa couldn't remember having seen in King’s Landing.   _Something has changed in him._

“That's not what I asked, se- _Sandor_.”

The stumble was a complete accident, but anything was better than calling him ‘ser’. She was a touch proud of herself for recovering so quickly, though in truth it was far too familiar for Sansa to address the Hound by his given name – inappropriate, in fact. Even the liberal Septon Laerd would have thought it forward.

The Hound noticed, too: he shot a surprised look at her, but did not object. He did not reply either.

 _And if I’m Alayne, I shouldn’t even_ know _his name…_

* * *

 

The use of his given name was a shock. _Bolder, this bird._ She made no apology, offered no explanation, and waited for him to challenge her. There was a set to the girl’s jaw that reminded Sandor of her wolf-bitch of a sister, and he smirked towards the water despite himself.

When he looked back, the girl was eyeing him up and down with a frown of concentration.  _That’s right, little bird, take your look; none of that girlish peeping._

“Have you taken vows? Truly?” she asked.

Sandor couldn’t gauge her mood at all, and it unnerved him. There was hope in her voice, and dismay too. _What in seven hells is going on here?_  This was not the scared child he’d left in King’s Landing. His head swam disconcertingly, unable to keep the thread of the conversation - let alone steer it.

“What would you say if I had?”

Fuck, she even looked like a proper woman now: taller again, with cheekbones that looked like they’d been sculpted by some Myrish master, and from what he could see beneath the cloak there were curves straight from his giddiest fantasy.

She quirked a smile at him, which sent a jolt right through his core.

“I would say you weren’t very good at keeping them. This is supposed to be the Quiet Isle, after all.”

“Silence isn’t the only vow,” he complained.

Sansa Stark cocked her beautiful head. “It would surprise me to learn you’d taken any vow. _Greatly_. And not only vows, but vows to the Seven Above.”

 _She paid more attention than I guessed._ And the way she spoke to him was different, very different. The voice itself was the same – polite, gentle - but there was a decisiveness underlying the words that he did _not_ know. They were chosen for economy as much as for decorum. This girl knew her own mind.

She nodded almost imperceptibly, reaching some unspoken conclusion. “All the same, it would please me to know you had found something that brings you peace. Gods or otherwise.” 

“In that case, I’ll have to disappoint you, little bird,” he said heavily. He was finding it strangely difficult to look the girl in the eye, and he hated himself for turning away when he remembered giving her hell for the same thing. “There's a peace here of sorts,” he told the mist, “but it's not _my_ peace.”

He glanced down to find her at his elbow, so much closer than he’d realised. His heart was hammering for some stupid reason; all his plan and intentions and confessions had been forgotten in the woods. _And I still haven’t apologised._ Did that mean this was going well or badly?

_Fuck._

“I've about as much right to this robe as I had to the white cloak,” he finished dubiously. It was a roundabout way to answer her question, but it would serve.

In the corner of his eye he saw something flash across her face, too quick for him to catch.  “Still,” she said quietly, “you seem... changed. Though I see you have not lost your talent for finding me when I least expect you.”

In the darkness, a warm hand curled around his forearm. _Bolder and bolder._

“You're as apt as ever to turn up where you shouldn't,” he riposted, gruffer than he meant to, but she must have caught the teasing note he’d intended, for she smiled straight up at him.

“Untrue. Alayne Stone is _exactly_ where she's expected to be.”

“Tell me, what about Sansa Stark, the hunted regicide?” _And wife to the Imp. Are we not mentioning that?_

“It's as well no-one knows where she is.”  Something glinted in Sansa’s eye and Sandor realised she was trying to be clever.

“So. Littlefinger got to you in the end,” he said grimly. It seemed he’d made the girl his own in more ways than one. Amidst the soaring in his chest, Sandor could feel his mood beginning to sour.

“Littlefinger is Alayne Stone’s lord father,” said Sansa quietly, though the archness of a moment ago had evaporated. “He has treated her kindly… and been a loyal friend to House Stark.”

Sandor felt his mouth twitch. “Maybe you haven't changed as much as I thought,” he said darkly. “I'll leave you to your prayers, girl.”

 

As he made to pull away, the girl’s face fell, and she made a pretty little ‘o’ of surprise before collecting herself.

“No, it's past time I returned. I will walk with you, as it please you.”

“As it pleases you,” he grunted back.  _If she really believes Littlefinger is her friend, then she needs all the gods who'll listen to her._

 

The little candle’s light could be seen in the back window of the cottage, and they set out across the mud towards its glow. The little bird did not relinquish her grip on his arm, nor did she speak. When they reached the path in the shadow of the windmill, Sansa finally stepped away.

“I would still hear your story, Sandor,” she said hopefully. “I often wondered what became of you, after...”

He swallowed hard, letting her words hang before replying.  “And will I hear your tale, too, little bird? Or Alayne Stone's?”

The girl pursed her lips and said nothing for a moment. With the moon behind her, the hood cast that pretty face into shadow. Then she turned it up to look him full in the face, the light pale and delicate on skin as perfect as his was ruined.

Sansa met his eyes. “Both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments very very welcome! Next chapter will take a few days and your feedback - good or bad - is my oxygen.


	5. The Fifth Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning - if you thought the hand on Petyr's breeches was bad, it's about to get much, much worse.

Despite snatching only a few hours’ sleep, Sandor set about his chores with a spring in his step. He swept the Hermit’s Hole and the sept, the buttery and the stables, and spent every moment of it thinking about what he would say to the little bird in the stolen evening to come.

First things first: he’d tell her what he knew about the other Stark girl. Would the little bird resent him for stealing her? He’d wondered on and off whether Arya might’ve been better off with the Brotherhood than with him, though it was said they’d turned outlaw after the Red Wedding, so might be he’d saved her from a worse fate.

There wasn’t much to tell about the two moons between the Blackwater and his capture anyway. A haze of wine, barfights and whoring in a succession of small towns off the Kingsroad, till the Brotherhood picked him up. It got a little more edifying after that.

The Elder Brother would have shaken his head at the notion, but Sandor couldn’t deny that he craved the little bird’s approval. The feeling of her hand on his arm, her face when she recognised him, her disappointment when he said he was going – his gut responded in a way that had more to do with Florian and Jonquil than the Bear and the Maiden Fair. It was pathetic and he knew it, but by seven hells he’d embraced enough guilt and fear and pain over the years to accept something pleasant when he felt it.

She was in no danger from him. The only danger was to himself.

 

* * *

 

Sansa lit a fresh candle with a tinge of excitement. It had been so long since she had been able to be _herself_ with someone, unconcerned about how they planned to use her or how they might hurt her. She had no idea when she'd stopped being afraid of the Hound - fearsome as he looked, brutally as he fought, the worst he'd ever done was wound her feelings. What he lacked in manners he'd made up for in bravery, in her estimation.

_The Mother answered my prayer. His rage has been gentled, at least a little._

It did not escape her notice that the scowl he'd worn in King's Landing had been replaced by a frown. 

 

The sleet pelted against her cottage and she was glad of its impervious thatch, while her candle burned tall and true in the window. It took every iota of resolve to keep her eyes on Septon Laerd's _Maiden's Primer_ once the sun began to set, until the more metaphorical verses began to resolve themselves into something that resembled a perplexing conversation she'd once had with Randa and Mya. She became so engrossed that the soft knock on the door startled her.

"Looked for you outside," said Clegane, his brown robe sodden. In his hand was a jug of what smelled like sweet cider, and he pulled a pair of cups from his pocket.

Sansa gestured to the table and he limped across the cell, moving with the sureness and agility she remembered - albeit asymmetrical now. She wondered what had befallen him, though it seemed likely she'd soon find out. Pouring silently, he handed her a cup, solemn as a statue. Black hair fell into his face, damp from the sleet as he looked up at her; where her fingers brushed his she found them icy cold, and felt terribly selfish for waiting indoors.

"Please, sit," she said, suddenly uncomfortable. 

Sandor regarded the wooden armchair dubiously and Sansa realised he'd never be able to squeeze his bulk into it. Glancing to Sansa for permission, he settled himself on her sleeping-pallet while Sansa pulled the chair around to face him. 

 

"You wanted my story, little bird," he rasped wearily, "so best make yourself comfortable."

He told her of his capture by the Brotherhood, and how Arya had been among them. How he'd stolen Arya away - "For my own reasons," he admitted freely, "if the damned Brotherhood were going to take my gold, I was going to poach their ransom." The battle at the Twins, the long road to the Vale, then to Saltpans, and back along the Trident. And then his wound, Arya's departure, and waking on the Quiet Isle.

"I can tell you no more of what happened to her," said Sandor roughly. "If she's lucky, she stowed away on a ship out of Saltpans, maybe found her friends from the road again. All I know is, six moons ago, she was alive. For what it's worth, she has a better chance of surviving than most on the road."

 _If this war ever ends, I'll look for her._ The Hound's story changed nothing, in truth, for it had been so long since they parted wars. Even so, the fact Arya had survived so long gave Sansa hope: that Arya's luck and sense might have held, and mayhap she'd escaped to live another day. It was a good feeling: hope.

"What was the last thing she said to you?" Sansa asked in a small voice. 

 

The Hound barked a laugh.

" _'You should have saved my mother,'_ " he snapped, the impression strangely accurate despite his scarred face and harsh voice. "I tried to make her kill me, right at the end. A dagger to the heart seemed sweeter than to rotting away with poison in my blood, and she hated me anyway. A win for everyone."

Sandor's mouth twitched; it felt as though he was searching for the words, somehow.

"Tried to make her angry. Told her how I killed her friend, the one who hit Joffrey. Told her how I couldn't save you. How I haven't forgiven myself for... how I was, the night the river burned. And I don't expect forgiveness from _you_ either, don't want it. I haven't earned it. Just thought you should know that I'd take it back, if I could."

 

Sansa felt a sting of disappointment.  _A song and a kiss and a white cloak. Would I give them back, if I had the chance?_

Tentatively, she laid a hand on his arm. "You should be kinder to yourself. You sought comfort. That's not an evil thing."

In the dimness, she saw the Hound's eyes darken.

"That's not all I wanted, little bird," he growled, "and you know it."

"You're not the only man to come to my chamber in the middle of the night, but you're the only one who ever left of his own volition," she said bitterly. Her thoughts went to Marillion, but moreover to Petyr, to Harry.

Sandor's jaw clenched. His head dropped, limp black hair falling over his face again. "I'm sorry for what they did to you," he said quietly.

"Don't be. I might have suffered the same indignities in King's Landing soon or late, if not for you. I  _know_ there was nothing for you to gain by speaking up for me - for you, or Tyrion, or Ser Lothor..."

"You made no mention of that loyal friend to House Stark, Petyr Baelish," he frowned. "What made Cersei decide to give you to him after all?"

"'Give' me to him?"

"Cersei didn't hand you over to him? After the Imp..."

Sansa blushed. "After Tyrion was taken prisoner? No, nothing like that. She still thinks I helped kill Joffrey."

"Is she right?"

And like a jug overflowing, Sansa spilled forth her whole sorry tale, of Dontos and Joffrey, of Littlefinger and Lysa, of Alayne and Harry - the beginning of Alayne and Harry, at least.

* * *

"You'll laugh at me for saying so, but... sometimes, I wished you'd been there."

Sandor stared at her, bewildered. She'd prayed for him, fair enough, but that in itself gave him more credit than he deserved.

"You never tried to be someone else," Sansa explained. "You said things that were cruel and disagreeable, but I knew exactly who was saying them to me - if not always  _why_. I suppose you had no reason to be gentle with anyone; you made it very clear that you hated courtesies."

"You were the only one who ever tried to chirp them to me. I was worse than a servant, to most of the court. Beat a dog often enough and he'll bite anyone who comes near."

"If only men were as predictable as dogs," said Sansa with an airy sigh, only half in jest. "I _understood_ Lady. I don’t think I’ve understood a single person since I came down from the North."

Sandor found himself wrong-footed, somehow.  _What the fuck is she on about now?_ "If this is about Joffrey-"

 

"Of course it's about Joffrey. Joffrey and  _all_ of them." 

The girl took a swig of the cider, her face hard and her tone dangerously brittle.

"I submitted, and he had me beaten. I defied him, and he had me beaten."

Her voice was rising.

"I said ‘no’ to Marillion and he lifted my skirts anyway. I begged Littlefinger not to kiss me, and he killed my aunt rather than stop."

She plunked the cup down with a hollow thunk that recalled the candles slammed on the altar of the Father. Anger - an anger that Sandor had never even suspected in her - was creeping closer to the surface with every word.

"Harry hated me, hated being bound to a whoremonger’s bastard, till I  _made_  him want me. I danced with every knight but him, and when I did give him the time of day I gave no sign of being happy about the match either. He was nothing to me, and I showed it. My wit and charm  _astonished_ him. By the tourney’s end he was  _begging_  me to see him again. And I did, eventually, then a third time. But Littlefinger wouldn’t agree to terms. He said it would not be 'safe' for Alayne to marry while Tyrion Lannister lived, and  _he_  began to dishonour me more shamefully by the day."

Rage and hurt stormed in her eyes, and she tore herself from the chair. Her voice sank to a hiss.

"He started to speak of how much  _stronger_  Sweetrobin had become, how mayhap it would be better if I was wed a man I could be surer of controlling. He started making me take him with my hand, while he pretended to worry that I should have power in my marriage."

Sandor turned his head to watch her brace both hands on the mantlepiece. His jaw ached for some reason.

"Harry snapped on the fifth visit," she said quietly. The anger still there but it had gone  _cold_  now, chilled by a terrible hollowness that tore Sandor apart. "He asked me to run away with him. I misliked his manner. There was no romance about it, just frustration, lust and wounded pride. When I said no, he called me a tease and a whore and far worse beside. He gave me one last chance: he’d wed me, but he wanted my maidenhead there and then, in a hallway by the kitchens in the middle of the night."

The girl fell silent. Sandor swallowed the lump in his own throat, then splayed his hands, brought back to his senses by an unfamiliar wetness. He’d clenched his fists so dark that he’d drawn blood: bright-red crescents oozed lazily in the hollow of his palm.

“Little bird,” he warned, hoarsely, “you don’t need to speak of it. He’s a long way from here, and I hope to fuck he’ll suffer for whatever he did to you.”

“Do you know what the worst part was?” she laughed bitterly, ignoring him.

The tears were bright in her eyes now, and more than anything Sandor wanted to pull her to him, embrace her, make the girl feel  _safe_  for once in her damned life. And he couldn’t, of course. The last thing she needed was yet another disgusting boor pawing at her to make himself feel better. He couldn’t even offer to fight for her any more, not with his leg ruined. If he couldn’t command fear with a sword in his hand, all that left him was an ugly face.

“The worst part was that I begged and screamed, I  _howled_ for help but I couldn’t fight him. There seemed no-one around to hear me. When he pinned me down-“

“Sansa-”

“-with my skirts torn he  _laughed_ , and told me he’d lied earlier. That he’d have my maidenhead, but he’d  _never_  marry a spoiled woman.”

 

* * *

 

There would have been even worse to tell, had not Mya gone back for her – quiet, loyal, brave Mya, who was a truer friend than Sansa had ever known. Whether Ser Lothor’s escort was at Mya’s urging or his own idea, she did not know.

The humiliation was still raw. She still railed against her own helplessness. And yet, there was a relief to letting the pain out into the open, like lancing a festered wound. Her own words let her take control of the memory; for all that doing so dredged up feelings she’d rather bury forever, there was also a small measure of catharsis. Next time she thought of it, the pain would be a little less.

The shadows shifted in the cottage while Sansa blinked back the last of her tears, then a thick-fingered hand joined hers on the mantelpiece. Sandor Clegane stared into the fire, head bowed and stock-still. The fire cast the sound side of his face into shadow, presenting the cracked landscape of scar tissue in chaotic relief. He made no further move towards her; he said nothing, did nothing. There was no tension or expectation to his presence, no awkwardness to his silence.

On some very fundamental level, she understood the gesture: unable to bring her any comfort with words, all he could give was the far more personal comfort of his body.  It was not imposed, merely – hesitantly - offered on the off-chance that she wanted it. To her mild surprise, Sansa found that she did want it, and gratitude welled in her chest.

The space between them was an ocean and a hairbreadth all at once, and Sansa crossed it in a small, shuffling step. Gingerly, she rested her temple on his tunic, standing as close to him as possible without truly embracing. She could call this man by his given name, and mayhap they had shared a kiss once in the heat of battle, but right now there was no romance or danger: he was just a decent man trying to protect her from her own reminisces. His hand came to rest softly in the centre of her back, and the ends of his hair whispered on her forehead as he bent towards her.

 

* * *

 

It would have been the most natural thing in the world to shut the fingersbreadth between them, pull her flush against him and hold her properly – hold her as though he could draw all of her pain and wounded innocence into himself and bear it for her. For all that he knew such a thing was impossible, he watched her features smoothing into calmness as the moments ticked by; felt the tension unwind from her body and the easing of her breathing.

“You needn’t see him again, little bird,” said Sandor tentatively, when he could bear the silence no longer.

He meant it to be reassuring, but Sansa made a choking noise somewhere between a cough and a sob, fisting her hand in his tunic. Until then, he hadn’t even felt her hand on his chest. She stepped away.

“Who do you think I’m preparing to wed?” she fumed.

“Even-”

“Littlefinger was far more concerned about his goods getting damaged than he was about my future happiness. I’m not so naïve that I couldn’t see it, and that was my pretext for getting away.”

 

 _Her life is still a song, just not a happy one,_ he reflected bitterly.  _A princess surrounded by monsters._ It said something terribly sad that Sandor was not even the worst of them.

A prideful lordling, his interest piqued and then soured - the boy sounded like Joffrey with a longer fuse. And Littlefinger – seven hells, Littlefinger, who was twisted enough to wheedle custody of a scared child of two-and-ten and sell her in his brothels. Sandor guessed Sansa had never learned what became of her little friend Jeyne Poole, and he would not be the one to tell her. Littlefinger had caused her enough pain already.

 

“So what’s your plan?”

“It depends,” said Sansa primly, crossing back to her chair. She’d collected herself admirably, her eyes bearing no trace of the wounded girl who’d just been trembling against him. “It’s clear that I must get away from Littlefinger’s control, and I see two opportunities to do so. First, I could wait here awaiting Petyr’s summons, in the hopes that the war will bring some new development that changes his plans. Second, I could run away from here before Ser Lothor returns. That is the option I favour.”

“Why haven’t you done it, then?” Sandor growled. He turned the options over in his mind.

“I won’t last long on the road, I know that. My plans need to be careful. I haven’t earned enough of the Elder Brother’s trust to get the information I need.”

Sandor nodded. “That sounds sensible enough. Where would you go?”

“The Wall,” said Sansa calmly. “Three moons have turned since Riverrun fell. I have nowhere else to go.”

 

Sandor's bad leg was beginning to twitch. He went to the table and took a long draught of cider, more to stretch his leg than slake his thirst, then seated himself back on Sansa’s pallet.

“And Brune? Is he in on your plans?”

“No. Even bringing me here was almost too much for him.”

_More than I ever did for you._

He itched to involve himself – was it sense or cowardice that held him back? Sandor knew he could not fight the way he used to, never would again, but would he really slow her down as he told himself?

 

“There is a third option, of course,” Sansa mused, sipping from her own cup.

“And what’s that?”

“Going back to marry Harry, of course.”

“Why the fuck would you do a thing like that?”

Sansa smiled sweetly at him, confounding his sudden rage. “Why, there’s no such person as Alayne Stone. When the time is right, I could point out that I  _can’t_ marry Harry when I’m already Tyrion Lannister’s wife.”

“You’d be handed straight back to Cersei for execution,” Sandor grumbled.

“Would I? I might be worth more than the Spider’s bag of gold when the Dragon Queen arrives.”

 

Sandor shook his head. Would bes, might bes, developments – he had no taste for speculation and intrigue. “Nothing good can come of trusting Littlefinger's intentions. You wouldn’t be the first Stark to make that mistake.”

“I don’t trust Littlefinger,” said the little bird firmly, though she frowned at his words. “I thought I’d made that quite clear. I don’t wish to be a pawn a moment longer than I have to.”

He sighed and stared at his feet, stretching.  _Wheels within wheels, deceptions within deceptions. Where does it all end?_

“What do you  _want_ , Sansa? If you could have anything you chose, without all this contingent political shite.”

“I have no idea any more," Sansa laughed, a tinkling sound that cut through the bleakness like a bell. "A quiet life. To feel safe. To be surrounded by a family of my own.”

“This Harry wasn’t enough to put you off marriage,” he grunted, a bit surprised.

“By the Mother, no,” Sansa smiled gentle. “I won’t let a creature like him wreck  _all_  my dreams. It’s almost funny. When I first left Winterfell I was so glad to get away - I was enchanted by the glamour of court, I couldn’t wait to become a high lady.”

Sandor remembered. She’d been a gentle, lovely girl with a head full of dreams. Hopeless dreams. She’d made him angry, then, because every time he’d looked at her it had hit him inescapably that all of her carefree innocence would soon be destroyed. He’d wanted to puncture her illusions, to soften the landing in the harsh vulgar way that was all he knew. He’d had no desire to be the one to break her. There were enough men in the world who looked at something beautiful and saw only how sweet it would be to wreck it, and he was not one of them.

“Since then, I’ve been matched, betrothed or wed to the heirs of four Great Houses, and they’ve all ended in danger and pain. I suppose I  _might_ try pursuing a Dornish prince, just to complete the set, but in truth I’ve had enough of high lords and their games. I don’t want to rule any realms. I want four walls and a hearth, and a husband who cares for me. Strong and brave and gentle, like my father promised when he tried to break me from Joffrey.”

 

Until that moment, Sandor had seen none of the North in Sansa Stark. Now, reflected in the firelight he could see a gleam in her eye that reminded him powerfully of her father. Poor, honourable Ned Stark, who was probably a good man despite being a useless judge of character and dour as a two-day hangover. His daughter had not yet become so jaded.

“You can’t escape what you are,” said Sandor heavily. He rose stiffly to pour another cider, gesturing to the girl’s cup as he spoke. “Can’t run from a name like ‘Stark’.”

“I can try,” Sansa shrugged, passing him her cup for a refill. “You don’t know what it’s like to be judged for  _what_  you are, not your skills or plans or…”

The girl trailed off in sheepish silence as Sandor handed her the wooden cup, with a glare and one finger pointed at his own face.

“That so, girl?” he said with a mirthless smirk. He put his cup back down and folded his arms. “I wouldn’t know what it’s like to be pre-judged. Tell me, little bird, when you look at me, what exactly do you see?”

 

Just as he’d seen her do the day before, Sansa Stark tilted her head rather fetchingly, her dark-red hair cascading over her shoulder. His stomach turned over as she looked him up and down appraisingly.

“If I didn’t know you?" she tried, pensively. "Tall, uncommonly tall, and strong with it. A warrior. Greatjon Umber might be taller than you, but he’s not so well-muscled.”

Sandor raised his good eyebrow. He decided this was the best question he’d ever asked a woman - though he doubted many others would have answered without having the phrase 'ugly fucker' mixed in there somewhere.

“Dark hair, grey eyes. You’ve spent too long in the sun to be mistaken for a northman, but the blood of the First Men for certain. So you can’t be from the Reach or the Vale.”

He’d honestly never thought about that before. His grandfather was lowborn, though - smallfolk didn’t get their lineages recorded at the Citadel. It made no matter, since the line would end with him, but still, he wondered. “Anything else?”

Sansa met his eyes. “You’re young. Younger than I realised, if I may say so. You must have been the youngest on the Kingsguard.”

“Wasn’t a Kingsguard, little bird, even if I wore the cloak,” Sandor corrected. He decided he liked her very well, candid. “Wasn’t the youngest either. I had two moons on Arys Oakheart.”

Sansa was looking at him with a peculiar expression. Her eyes drifted down towards his wounded leg but if she had a question, she did not voice it. The girl swallowed.

“I see… that you’re dressed like a brown brother. You don’t wear a sword-belt, even though you have burns just like the Hound’s.”

Sansa met his eyes again, and this time he recognised the admiration that shone in her eyes. It shocked him into silence. Sandor felt his ear reddening; it took effort to remember to breathe.

“You  _chose_ , Sandor. You’ve chosen not to be the Hound any more. And I can choose not to be Lady Stark. Maybe one day she’ll be needed, just like one day the Hound might be needed, but until then I mean to put her away in my cedar chest. I’ll make a simple life, and just be Sansa.”

“I’m not sure your septons would approve of that - self-deception and suchlike,” said Sandor with a weak smile and a nod to the stack of books on her table. To his absolute shock, Sansa turned bright red.

* * *

_I honestly have no idea what the septons would approve of any more_.

"On the contrary," she said, fighting down her embarrassment, "They are all for a humble life spent in contemplation, whatever the means. And... a loving marriage that is... fruitful. And fulfilling."

Sandor's eyes slid suspiciously from the  _Maiden's Primer_ to Sansa's red face and back again. 

"Do you mean to tell me some bloody septon from hundreds of years ago wrote a book for young women about how to fuck?"

 

As Sansa's blush deepened still further, Sandor whipped the book from her stack and let it fall open at her bookmark. His lips moved as he read the offending passage and his eyebrow shot up. "' _Just as the lea must be tilled and nourished, so too must-'"_

Sansa couldn't bear it; she snatched the little book from Sandor's hands almost right way. "If you must know, it says a man must...  _please_ his wife if they are to have strong and healthy babes. And that it's a woman's duty to show her husband how to do so."

Mirth danced in Sandor Clegane's eyes. "And you believe that, do you, little bird?"

"I don't know if I trust a celibate man to know all the mysteries of women," said Sansa sheepishly. She was utterly mortified, and threw up her hands in abandon. "Although it does tally with what the older girls used to talk about when they spoke of taking lovers."

Braced for ribald teasing, Sansa was surprised to see the laughter on his face dimming. "You'll know that one day, girl. Maybe you'll get your Dornish prince." 

 

Before Sansa could answer back, Clegane startled.

"Birdsong. Fuck."

_We spoke all night._

A strange awkwardness filled Sansa as they both rose stiffly. She was suddenly unsure of what to do with her hands, where to stand, even shy to look at him.

_What would Randa say if she knew I'd stayed up all night sharing confidences with the Hound?_

Sansa knew exactly what Randa would say: she'd asked if Sansa had bedded him. That thought just made the awkwardness _worse_. She wanted desperately to break the silence, but could think of nothing to say. 

_Courtesy is a lady's armour._

 

"Thank you for passing the evening with me," said Sansa. She found she meant every word.

The Hound's frown softened. "A bit of company did us both some good."

They were standing by the door now, both hesitating, staring at one another. Sansa studied his face, closer to hers than usual what with how the beams sloped down towards the front of the cottage. More intimidating than his height was the sheer bulk of him. Sansa wondered how on earth she had ever let this man embrace her without getting herself crushed to pieces. Somehow, she could barely remember what that  _felt_ like. She remembered his kiss, of course, hard and cruel; but in some strange way the memory no longer fit with the sombre man standing in front of her. 

There was something like fear in his eyes just now, but something warmer there too. 

_Gods, it's my turn to speak._

Her breath caught in her throat. Sansa realised with horror that she'd been staring at his mouth, trying to recall the asymmetry of lip and scar... And still she could think of no words to break their terrible quiet. 

A reckless daring seized her.

Smooth as silk, graceful as a dancer, Sansa stepped in. With a hand resting feather-light on each of his arms, she rose as high as her toes could lift her and kissed the Hound.


	6. The Sixth Day

He stepped out into the dark morning and the cold hit him like a hammer. His mind was awhirl with all he'd learned since sunset, but his body was weary enough to collapse into the first sheltered corner. It seemed the bad habits of a lifetime were finally loosening their grip on him, however, for his feet led him back to the dormitory to scrounge up an hour or two of slumber; time was, he would have simply powered through his exhaustion and started his day, rather than retiring at this hour. No doubt it was relevant that he hadn't eaten since midday. The mead and the anxiety of the night had depleted all his reserves.

As silently as he could manage, he shrugged off his wet robe-

 

- _and felt her fingers dance across his shoulders, down his chest, and-_

 

-and tried to make himself comfortable on his improvised bed. Maybe he'd never left the damned thing this night. It all seemed surreal. Bad enough she didn't hate his ugly hide, strange enough for her to spare him a prayer, but she couldn't have poured her heart out and then fucking well kissed him, could she?

Just minutes ago, he'd been hunched low at the door of her cottage, reluctant to break the spell and leave her company. He hadn't even known how to take his leave; for him, spending the night with a woman had only ever been a figure of speech until now.

She'd hovered, as awkward as he felt, then came to him natural as breathing and kissed him, long and gentle. When the girl finally removed her soft lips from his-

 

_-her eyes remained locked on his face, dark and wild with desire. Soon he was taking her against the wall, driving powerfully into her while she mewled her ecstasy into his neck-_

 

-he'd seen his own surprise written all over her face. Seven hells, he'd been so dazzled at the time that he could barely remember if he'd even kissed her back.  

"I should go," he'd rasped hoarsely with the first breath in his body. He made himself look at her again before crossing the threshold. "Tomorrow?"

Pale and pink-mouthed, she'd nodded. He might even have smiled. And now, for all his weariness, there could be no sleep: not while every possible permutation of the next meeting played out in his mind.

How would she react to him tonight? Would she

 

- _take_ _his hand then and shut the door, nestling into his chest and murmuring his name happily-_

 

-have come to her senses and seen it for a mistake? Or worse, decided to tease him further... Seven hells, if she offered, was he strong enough not to take her?

 

Chances were, it had been a moment of madness on her part. He should just be flattered that Sansa Stark felt safe enough with him to bestow a kiss, and if he had any of the honour the Elder Brother ascribed to him he wouldn't be hoping for anything more. But the truth was that Sandor Clegane had never expected to attract a woman's regard. Having seen the faintest glimmer of it - and from _her_ , no less, the perfect lady he placed above all others - he now discovered a yawning hunger for it.

Sandor had no idea how to court a woman. Seven hells, he'd been eight-and-ten before he even fucked a woman without paying for it: pulled into an alcove by a drunken scullery wench twice his age, when Casterly Rock revelled in news of Pyke's fall. In the decade since, encounters like that were the closest thing to courtship he'd known.

Obviously _that_ wouldn't do with the little bird, outside of his lazy half-hearted fantasies. She deserved every fucking thing she'd wished for last night. 

 _Four walls and a hearth, and a husband who cares for me... To feel safe, surrounded by a family of my own._ She'd been looking wistfully towards the fire, its flickering light calling out the red in her hair. Red hair, framing a heart-shaped face that was dominated by pretty, long-lashed eyes. She did not duck her dainty chin in shyness as she told him her heart's desires. She presented them simply, without unease: a woman comfortable with her own ambitions. 

He wondered if she'd want dogs.

 _Get a hold of yourself, Clegane._ It was a far-fetched wish anyway, but even if by some bizarre miracle she wanted that life with  _him_ someday, he doubted he could give her all she wanted. Her first dream was to get to the Wall. That would be challenge enough, and there was no guarantee she would accept his help.

 

And there was still much about her story that Sandor didn't understand. Why was Littlefinger so worried about defending the girl's maidenhood? This Harry boy couldn't know Sansa had been wed already - had Littlefinger sent her to the Quiet Isle to make sure Harry didn't call their bluff? It didn't make sense either that Littlefinger was marrying her off when he so plainly wanted her for himself.

Sandor could tell from the way the little bird told the stories that her naivety was long gone. It might have saddened him, once. Now, he was simply glad she'd kept her gentleness despite it.

 

* * *

 

When Sansa woke some hours later, her little cell felt strangely empty without the Hound there.

_Oh gods, what have I done?_

 

The was no denying that she'd felt oddly drawn to him last night. It had been so long since someone had taken an interest in her thoughts and feelings -  _her_ thoughts and feelings, not Alayne Stone or the traitor's daughter. 

She thought of his eyes, intense as she remembered but with none of the anger. How they'd fixed on her as their fingers brushed. Now as then, lightning raced to the pit of her stomach. She'd known infatuation as a girl - the safe, distant hero-worship of young men like Ser Waymar or Ser Loras. But the Hound? Sandor Clegane was no Knight of the Flowers. He was harsh and brutal; she'd seen him _kill_. She'd borne his scorn in King's Landing and knew exactly how unkind he could be, for no reason save boredom. And yet... from what she had seen, it seemed he might have buried much of that with the Hound.

 

Sansa cringed, remembering the things she said to him. A husband strong and brave and gentle, a home and hearth of her own. _And then I kissed him. By all the gods, he probably thought I was talking about him._ How could she be so careless? Hadn't Harry taught her the danger of leading a man on? Sansa could not imagine Sandor trying to hurt her the way Harry did, but she had no wish to wake his rage ever again.

She took a deep breath, trying to regain focus on the hem she was sewing.

 _I'm being silly_ , she told herself. Even if she _had_ given him the wrong impression, he would hardly expect her to marry him on the strength of it. Sansa knew that she didn't want to marry the Hound - she barely knew him, and what she did know did not make him the kind of husband she thought she wanted. She could not imagine her father ever speaking to her mother the way the Hound had spoken to her in King's Landing. Despite that... he could be so tender, too. The way he listened to her, the way he tried to comfort her. The look in his eyes after she kissed him: confused and pleased and _hopeful_. How different from Harry.

The Hound was certainly a better man than Joffrey, or Harry, or Petyr. _Would I rather be his wife than Tyrion's?_  she wondered.

Sansa blushed again remembering what she'd said about desiring a "fruitful" marriage.  _Gods... he would devour me,_ she realised with a shudder. A thrill ran through her which was not quite fear.

 

Soon after midday, Sansa wrapped up in her cloak and made her way to the buttery. The garments she'd mended were packed neatly into the basket, though she'd held on to the boots back in her cottage. After helping herself to some thin soup and soft brown bread, loaded with butter, Sansa loaded her basket with new items for mending. The silent brothers made her feel strangely invisible. They barely acknowledged her presence, as though she belonged to a different world and her presence was tolerated. She supposed that in a certain way, that was true.

A few days had passed since the Elder Brother called upon her, and Sansa was feeling the prickings of her conscience now. What had the Elder Brother said the other morning? That he didn't want Sansa's presence to be disruptive for his flock? It had been remiss of her to speak with the Hound without considering that it might interfere with his recovery on the Isle. She'd asked the Mother to help him; maybe her selfishness was undoing her prayer. It was guilt that led her to seek out the Brother again.

 

"Lady Alayne," the Elder Brother greeted her, answering her knock. "How may I help you?"

"I was hoping for guidance, Elder Brother."

The monk gave Sansa a paternal look of reassurance and nodded. "Walk with me, my lady."

They stepped out into the bright winter sun, cloaks rippling in the cold breeze. 

"You look tired, my lady," said the Elder Brother. "Are you well?"

"Very well, Elder Brother," said Sansa. "I must thank you again for catering for me so kindly. I fear I have sat up reading too long these past two nights."

"Tell me what troubles you."

 

Sansa was glad they were walking, so the blush that crept up her cheeks was not so noticeable. They passed frosted fields where she guessed roots usually grew; on the other side of the path, pear trees swept down all the way to the river's edge.

"I was hoping to speak about Septon Laerd."

"Ah," said the Elder Brother affably. "I thought you might, soon or late. I trust you have not neglected dear Septon Woggin?"

"Of course not, my lord," said Sansa, surprised. "His teachings are quite familiar to me from the motherhouse, in truth."

"So, where shall we begin?"

"Could we start with Septon Laerd's commentary on the Parable of the Glass Garden?"

"A difficult one for any maiden to understand."

"Thank you, Elder Brother. I have always understood that my duty is to wed and bear children. It is my wish to be a good wife, to give Harry many children as befits the heir to a great house. But..." Sansa sniffled slightly, letting sorrow creep into her voice. "I no longer know how to play my part when... when the time comes. I want to play my role well. What do Septon Laerd's teachings mean for me, practically?"

 

"Your concern does you credit, my lady," said the Elder Brother gently. "That particular chapter has been all but disavowed by the Faith, though it's regrettable they have done so when no other part of the accepted teachings deals with the practicalities of married life."

"Were you married, Elder Brother?"

"No, child. Still, I was a man of the world, and some of my sins were very great. You have read Septon Woggin's views on the union of man and wife?"

"It is a holy sacrament."

"It is - a sacrament that is just as important as the ceremony in the sept. The laws of gods and men do not hold a marriage to be valid without both elements. However, unlike most of our sacraments, the marital act is celebrated by all the peoples of the world, be they illuminated by the Seven or no. Oftentimes it is corrupted by base urges or cruelty, or a lack of respect for both the act and its actors."

"And so..."

"And so the Faith prescribes kinder, godlier way of celebrating it than the more barbarous peoples of the world. Septon Woggin writes of a wife's duty to please her husband, while Septon Laerd's writings tell wives-to-be that they also have a right to be treated kindly by their husbands, when they enter the marriage-bed."

"Treated... kindly?"

The Elder Brother gave her a sad smile. "The gods meant the marriage-bed for making children: a sacred duty of all peoples, and one that is fraught with risk. So it is that the gods have made the act of making children into something pleasing."

"I knew that it could be good for the man," said Sansa shyly. Petyr drifted through her mind; his contorted face, his laboured breathing. She'd understood before that of course, but Petyr had left her thoroughly acquainted with _how it felt_ for a man to reach his peak. 

 

"Septon Laerd felt it was important that women understood it could be good for them, too. At the time, the maesters believed a woman could not quicken with child unless her husband had pleased her. They have since revised that view, which is to the good; the legal implications were... unfortunate."

Sansa felt a pang, thinking of lack-witted Lollys Stokeworth and her so-called sickness after the bread riot. She doubted any of Lollys' rapers had had much concern for pleasing her, and she'd found herself with child all the same.

"From our more enlightened perspective today, it is plain to see how they arrived at such an outlandish conclusion. The maesters spoke with many women in childbed, and found that those who bore many children were treated kindly by their husbands. However, they assumed the cause of it was biological, instead of realising that when we enjoy an activity, we engage in it far more often."

 

"So how can I make sure I... enjoy it?"

"That should be a concern for your lord husband, when the time comes," said the Elder Brother guardedly. Sansa fell silent. Together they crunched onto a gravel path that let between the beehives. Two brown brothers, their robes and furs covered over with netting, were inspecting one of the colonies. "Should I take from your silence that you are worried about your betrothed? That he will _not_  concern himself with your happiness?"

"I see no reason why he will feel obliged to be gentle with me," said Sansa sadly. "Men do not read Septon Laerd. Forgive me, Elder Brother, but I wish I had not."

"Tell me, child, does a wife have no voice in a marriage? What is it we sing to the Mother?"

" _Teach us all a kinder way,_ " Sansa quoted, hesitantly.

"Good. It may take time, but fear not. The gods will help you guide him to the proper path, as is a wife's duty."

 

At the base of the hill, where the laneway met the path between the the main buildings and the landing dock, the Elder Brother halted. Sansa's eyes swept the curve of the shore, and in the distance she made out a limping figure hauling barrels from a cart onto the pier. Her heart leapt.

"We have gone far enough," the Elder Brother observed. "I need to write to the head of my order in Oldtown before the weather changes. Will you forgive me if we turn back?"

"Of course, Elder Brother. I should like to learn more of your order, if it please you."

 

* * *

 

Although the girl didn't throw herself at him as he'd fantasised, Sandor was not at all disappointed by her greeting. Her pretty face lit up when she opened her door to him, and she fussed around his wet robe, his leaking boots, and the circles under his eyes. All the while, there was a gentle concern in her eyes that melted his heart, and he let her do her worst. She spoke mainly to the good side of his face, he noticed, though she no longer shied away from the sight of his scars.

The girl had brought back her own jug of sweet cider, and had conjured a rack from somewhere so she could set it to mulling over the fire. The flagon his brought was used to top up the kettle. He suspected the wooden cups had gone unwashed since last night, though it made no matter to him.

 

"The Elder Brother told me something interesting today," she said conversationally, once she was convinced he was warm and comfortable. "I walked with him this afternoon, and he said that each of the men here has a specific plea for the gods."

"Aye," said Sandor. "Couldn't tell you what any of them are praying for though, before you ask. They're not as chatty as you."

Sansa smiled at his lame jest; his stomach flipped over anyway. "What if I asked about your plea?  Of course, I won't press you about it if you don't want to."

- _pressed_ _her slender body_ _up against him, her teats crushed lasciviously against his chest with the strength of her embrace-_

Sandor grunted and waved a hand. Seven hells, she'd bared her soul last night; the least he could do was give her a glimpse of his. Show her what sort of a shallow brute she was welcoming into her cottage in the evenings.

"Something about finding a purpose. Something new to follow, as if I was following anything in particular before I ever came here. The Elder Brother wants me to 'forge his own path' or some such shite." He stared at the cup in his hand. "It's not that simple, of course. I've never been a leader. Probably too much of a bloody coward."

 

"That's not true," he heard her say. He could hear the pout without having to see it. "Tyrion told me how brave you were on the Blackwater."

"Before I ran away with my tail between my legs, you mean?" Sandor shot back. He forced himself to look at her, aware he was scowling.

"He said he didn't know how you stood it as long as you did," said Sansa gently. "That it was worse than the seventh hell for him, let alone for a man who's already tasted fire as you have. That doesn't make you a coward; if you _weren't_ afraid then it wouldn't have been courage. You didn't go by yourself, either. You conquered your fear so well that you to made dozens of men fall in behind you, didn't you?"

Cautiously, as though she thought he might bite, Sansa placed a white hand on his. "Whether you want to be a leader or not is up to you. But  _I_ think you're brave enough for anything."

That admiration was shining in her eyes again, unmistakably. Something sparked in his chest: he wished, desperately, that he could one day become half of what she thought he was. He felt something else, too. Some small resentment that he didn't know he harboured had melted away. Sandor had half a lifetime of reasons to detest Tyrion Lannister, but Sansa's words had soothed his pride somehow. It struck him that the Imp had been impressed enough to go back to his tower and tell his little wife just how much punishment the Hound had taken before he broke.

"I never told him you came to me," said Sansa, completely misinterpreting his silence. Her hand squeezed his. "Or about... what happened to your face."

Instinctively, he'd known she never would. But Sandor just placed a hand over hers and said, "Thank you, little bird."

 

* * *

 

 _Gods, there's such anguish there,_ thought Sansa, letting his stormy grey eyes hold hers.  She wondered what he saw in her gaze, and hoped it was the reassurance she so wanted to give him.  _Has anyone ever wanted to share his confidence before?_  It was too sad to think that the answer might be 'no'; a man almost twice her age.

"So tell me, Sandor, if a purpose makes no matter to you then what do  _you_ want? 

"I don't rightly know," said the Hound, roughly. His gaze drifted back to the cup in his hands. "What I want hasn't mattered since I was a very small boy."

Sansa was having none of it. "I could have said the same last night, but I answered you," she said, gentle but firm. "Think on it now, if you can. For me."

 

Amazingly, that did the trick. Removing a hand from hers, he swirled the cider left in his cup, then knocked it back in a single gulp.

"My father's keep, and dogs," he rasped at last. "Aye, I'd go back to the place where I was born and wipe every trace of Gregor from it. Almost a pity I'm a wanted man, else it would be mine by rights. I could go there and do as I liked."

"This war will change a great many things," Sansa reminded him. "If there's one thing I learned from Littlefinger, it's that no desire is out of reach when the ground is shifting."

Sandor barked a laugh. "If the next lord of the Seven Kingdoms forgives you regicide, I can probably get away with desertion. Ought to thank your Imp husband for that trial-by-combat, incidentally. I don't think I'd manage Gregor myself, sweet as that would've been - not since I let one of his men mangle this leg."

 

Sansa hadn't thought about that. All her guilt came surging back - the shame of not realising what had been happening, the deep regret that Tyrion had found himself on trial so unfairly.  _The Hound protected Joffrey for years. Can I be sure he'll bear me no ill-will for taking part in his assassination?_ If he did, it was best to find out sooner than later.

 

"Yes, the gods found Tyrion guilty," she said sadly. She was acutely aware that Sandor was watching her face attentively. "He wasn't. I never knew it, but I had more to do with Joffrey's murder than he did - and he ended the one who paid the price."

She told him what she knew - about how Dontos had made contact with her, the hairnet and the amethysts, Olenna's interference, Littlefinger's admission. The Hound's face took on a faraway look as he put it all together. 

"I never knew what was happening, but it won't look that way to anyone who finds the truth." Unnerved by his silence, Sansa laughed weakly. "Mayhaps I'd best find my hearth across the Narrow Sea."

"Mm." The Hound looked at her again, finally, and when he did so she was relieved to see no anger or resentment in his face. A strange smile broke across his ruined face, setting the corner of his mouth to twitching. "Sail for Pentos and find your fortune as a songstress," he mused.

Sansa goggled at him.

"What, not keen on Pentos?" he said seriously. "Well, you're not blonde enough for Lys or dark enough for Myr. And there are no lemon trees in Braavos."

"Lemon trees?" she squeaked.

"You can't tell me your happy little home won't smell of lemon cakes." The Hound examined his nails with a smirk. "Forgot about Tyrosh, but you wouldn't suit purple eyebrows anyway."

 _Gods, he's almost... playful._ Had she ever seen this side of him before? 

"And what would  _you_ do in Pentos?" she retorted, one eyebrow cocked. 

"Who said anything about me being there?" he laughed. "I don't speak any bloody Valyrian. Might be I could sell my sword to some merchant prince and never need to learn it."

"They'd be fools to spurn you. What would you do in your free time?" teased Sansa, delighted. "Come and watch me sing?"

"Eat lemon cakes," he growled with a predatory grin. It didn't terrify Sansa the way it used to. That odd thrill she'd felt earlier had come back.

"I'd have to let you, first," she smiled.

 

The Hound stretched expansively, eliciting a loud click from his neck. Sansa let her gaze trail over the breadth of his chest and his brawny arms.  _No-one would ever hurt you,_  he'd sworn, and by all the gods she couldn't imagine a man to challenge him.

"In that case, little bird, you should know that I can be _very_ persuasive when I want to be." His voice was low and warm, tinged with amusement and something rougher.

Sansa had seldom felt bolder.

"Yes," she riposted drily, "your golden tongue is the first thing that comes to mind when someone mentions Sandor Clegane."

"Silver," he quipped. "I always come second."

Although she didn't entirely understand the jest, his leer made the context abundantly clear. _One day I'll have a song from you, whether you will it or no,_ he'd said once, with a similar gleam in his eye. Sansa felt a furious blush spring into her face and all her brazenness deserted her.

 

* * *

 

Fuck, this was going absurdly well. Sandor's blood hadn't sung like this since... when  _had_ he last felt this exhilarated? There'd been a sword in his hand, most like. It felt like it had been years. The girl was blushing nicely now, put off-balance by his banter. She'd been giving as good as she got, though. This flirty shite was easier than he expected. 

 _Such a pretty creature_ _,_  he thought happily.

Her mood changed then; he supposed she had no idea what to say next, so was changing the subject altogether. Sansa Stark, ever the perfect highborn lady, sat back and crossed her ankles beneath her chair, clasping her hands around her cup. The flush was subsiding, but her timidity remained.

 

"Sandor," she began anew, timid as a mouse. Seven bloody hells, he loved the way she said his name-

_-squirming beneath him on this pallet, begging him not to stop-_

-and how she made it sound as soft and noble as her own. He hadn't heard his own name so often in a very long time. 'Clegane' was as polite and familiar as most of his comrades ever got; he was far more used to answering to nicknames or insults. She had far too much respect for him, that look on her face told him as much.

"I told you yesterday that I wanted to go to the Wall," she stammered. "Do you think you could... I mean to say, would you..."

"Will I help you?" he offered, gently.

Sansa nodded gratefully. "Will you help me, or - or come with me, even?"

He almost laughed. _Here I am admiring the way she says my name, having just_ _offered to eat her cunt, and she's worried I'd make her go off into the wilds alone._   "Of course I'll come with you, girl, if you'll put up with me. And... Sansa."

Her deep blue eyes found his again. "Yes?"

"You should know..." He leaned forward, hoping his expression showed none of his apprehension or reluctance. "You don't have to, well, kiss me to keep me loyal. I'm  _your_ bloody dog now. I'll serve you till you tell me to stop." He paused. "Or till you send me into fire."

"I'll try not to," she whispered.

 

She set aside her cup and wrung her hands a little, then retreated to the fireplace to get them both a refill. Her steps were awkward, deliberate; she looked terribly uncomfortable in her own skin, which was new. She placed her cup on the arm of her chair, then shuffled close to his elbow to leave his on the table. She was very close to him now, looking up at him nervously through her lashes.

"Sandor. What if I wantto kiss you anyway?"

 

Heat flared in his belly, even before her hand snaked onto his arm. He rose to his feet slowly, as though worried he might spook her like a flighty horse. Gently as he could, he wrapped a hand around the back of her head, letting the other land lightly on her back. He lowered his face to hers, turned up just like he'd imagined. Her eyes darted from his gaze to his mouth and back. She was so  _small_ , so delicate. 

He kissed her softly at first, mimicking her actions from last night as best he could. Sansa's hand tightened over his arm and she started to relax in his embrace. He still felt taut as a bowstring, still holding back years of frustration; years of raw desire and a softer need too, for the sweetness of a woman's company and the joy of returned affection.

Sandor felt her other hand come to rest on his waist and he deepened the kiss, nipping lightly on her lower lip. He stroked her hair, finding it as smooth and soft as he imagined. Her lips parted beneath his and she trembled against him, drawing him even nearer. The hand she'd laid on his arm now found its way around his shoulder and onto the back of his neck. Sandor allowed his caresses to trail down further, skimming over her spine to cup her perfect arse. When he felt her tongue move cautiously against his, his cock stirred in his breeches-

_-taking her against the wall-_

-and he felt his mind beginning to get ahead of him. Reluctantly, he broke the kiss, and though his body objected to being robbed of her closeness, he was rewarded with the sight of her breathless. Her hand unwound from his hair and slid down to rest over his wrist. Her chest rose and fell dramatically in the simple linen dress, breath hitching just once with the desire he shared. 

 

"I'll need to retire, little bird," he said heavily. _Time to go, before I start panting like an animal._   "We'll talk again on the morrow."

He took her hand from his arm, gently, and raised it to his ruined lips. A smile blossomed across that pretty face, even as he moved towards the door.

"Who knows," he rasped from the threshold, mirroring her grin, "Maybe I'll even show you that silver tongue."


	7. The Seventh Day

On the seventh morning, Sansa went to the shore.

Something in her had changed since last night; she was no longer alone. For good or ill, she had seduced the Hound into her service and he was going to help her find refuge at the Wall. She'd done it in good faith, of course, but it was still seduction of a sort. 

 _Cersei would be proud,_ she thought sardonically. 

She couldn't imagine Cersei turning into a breathless tongue-tied mess when she tried to seduce a rival. She doubted that Cersei, in her machinations, fell asleep imagining her mark's strong arms around her, scarred fingers interlaced with hers...

Sansa  _liked_ it. Her body gloried in the Hound's touch despite every objection a lifetime of propriety could summon. If he brought her North, she knew there was a good chance she would surrender her maidenhood to him on the way. The extraordinary thing was that it didn't even _bother_ her much. Not even in a place like this, where she should feel close to the gods of her mother's family. Where she should feel bound by family, duty, and honour; by the rules and obligations of noble maidens to preserve their hearts and bodies for the political ends of their house. Not even after days and nights of Woggin and Laerd and their admonitions of fallen women.

_What would the Old Gods think?_

The wind whipped from the north again, but the communion with the land that she had felt just days ago was beyond her grasp. The Old Gods, she guessed, did not concern themselves overmuch with romantic virtue or maidenheads.

 

Breaking her fast surrounded by brown brothers, Sansa began to feel overwhelmed by her options. There were so many variables at play now. An ally was certainly a boon, but a lover? A lover complicated matters even further than before - particularly a lover who was notorious and recognisable in his own right. Was she still hunted by Cersei and Varys, as Ser Lothor warned? Petyr would be seeking her the moment she left the Isle, that much was certain. How could she elude hunters whose very existence was in doubt?

And... she hesitated to even think of it, but there was no getting away from Sandor's limp. It was too much to hope that he could still be the fighter she remembered. She left her porridge unfinished and let her feet carry her to the sept. 

 

The winter sun cast the sept into pale colour through the leaded glass.In the pews, set back from the altars, Sansa shut her eyes and let the scent of incense permeate her.  For a moment she was back at the tiny sept in Winterfell, the one her father had built just for her mother. She trembled with emotion, allowing the hurt and anguish to howl through her; letting herself truly  _feel_ everything she had bottled up for what felt like a lifetime.

She needed no candles. If there were gods, as she hoped, and if they truly saw all, then they would hear her prayer just fine. She prayed for the family she'd lost. For the family she might still find, surviving out in the world. For Tyrion, her husband in name if not in law, who had been kinder to her than she'd understood at the time. Somehow, she did not think would resent her adulteries; he of all people would understand the urge to find comfort wherever it was offered. She prayed for Petyr and Harry and Cersei, the cruel triptych of courtiers who tried to break her, and she prayed for Theon, who killed her brothers.

 _Judge him,_ she willed, _as I hope he judges himself._  

Her gaze fell upon the Warrior and as ever she thought of Jon and Uncle Edmure. This time, though, she prayed Sandor too. _He may need your favour again soon._

At the end, she prayed to the Maiden. She prayed for Arya, who might be a woman grown and flowered by now. But most of all Sansa prayed for herself.

 _Protect me,_ she begged. _Protect me from urges I don't fully understand. Keep me from giving my heart too easily. Save me from giving my body in a way that I later regret. It's been misused by others, but bring me sound judgement when I make my own choices.  Guide me to a husband who will treat me kindly, and not only because he should - but because he wants to. And if you can... l_ _et me choose for myself the man who wins my hand._

Outside, the wind picked up, whistling in the slats of the wooden sept. Above her, the septry bell clanged half-heartedly, its clapper disturbed by the swirling winds of the rivermouth. Just as the change in the wind had startled her back to reality by the shore the day she arrived, the strangled tolling of the bell brought her back. Somewhere outside, a cloud crossed in front of the sun, and in the sept on the Quiet Isle, the light of the Seven was dimmed.

 

* * *

Despite his early night, Sandor's eyes itched with fatigue. Not for the first time that morning, he berated himself for thinking with his cock instead of his brain, but in his heart of hearts he knew his cock wasn't the main part of him that was drawn to the little bird's cottage night after night. It eased the heaviness in his limbs, to know that that refuge would be there again tonight. Her slender arms, white as porcelain in the firelight, would wrap around him and her eyes would fix on him with genuine delight. She didn't ignore his scars, and she didn't fetishise them either. She just looked at him as he was, and kissed him anyway.

 

It was another day for deliveries, leaving Sandor down by the landing pier to watch for boatmen before the tide went out too far. He was so lost in his reveries of Sansa Stark that the Elder Brother was at his elbow before Sandor noticed him.

"There is a change in you, novice," said the Elder Brother serenely. "Does it mean my prayers have been answered?"

"I'm not taking any vows," Sandor grumbled.

"I was hoping you might have found that purpose I have been speaking of."

Sandor thought on it, and decided on the truth. "Might be," he said cautiously.

"So? Speak with me."

 

There was movement on the north bank; soon Sandor would have work to do. The sight came as a relief as it meant the Elder Brother wasn't like to drag him off for another interminable metaphysical conversation in the Hermit's Hole. 

Sandor sighed, weighing his words. "It's like this," he began gruffly. "I'm not a good man. Not a kind man, not highborn or rich or fair to look upon. But I'm good with a sword, when I have to be, for all that I've no more love for killing. I might as well use it to make some happiness for someone."

"Anyone in particular?" the Elder Brother prompted, frowning.

"Same person as usual."

"Where will you find her?"

"Wherever she  _is_ ," he said fiercely. "I swear by the Seven and the Old Gods and the Red one and that Drowned fucker, wherever she is I will find her and swear my sword to her. And you know fine well that I'd die for her, if it was the only way to keep her safe." He hesitated. "I nearly died for her sister, though it was a fight I damn well picked, like an arrogant fucking fool."

 

The Elder Brother was not distracted.

"There was a time when you wanted more than that from Sansa Stark."

"There was. Want and need aren't the same. I'm not an animal; I don't _need_ anything more from Sansa Stark. Just her happiness, even if it means handing her over to some spineless lordling who puts a song in that soft heart of hers."

 _I'd rather hand her a lordling's head, of course,_ he thought,  _and I've got one or two in mind._

"I'll find her," he finished lamely. "Or die trying."

 

A single gust of wind peeled away his last word, sweeping over the island and setting the septry bell to tolling.

"An unselfish aim," said the Elder Brother, still frowning. He turned to face Sandor head-on. "The change, when it comes, is often as quick as this. You stand taller than you did a fortnight ago. Your cares are not so deeply graven on your face, for your mind is turned to the future, instead of your past. It is a gift the gods grant us. When you leave us, Sandor, I hope you will not forget all we tried to teach you."

"I won't," said Sandor uncertainly.

He examined the Elder Brother, seeking out the test or catch in his challenge, but could find none. _I have his blessing to leave_ , Sandor realised. _He's not happy, but this is a better purpose than he hoped for._  It eased his conscience, truth be told, to know that he would not be absconding like some thief in the night - after all the Elder Brother and his order had done for Sandor.

"I _am_ grateful," he said honestly. "You could have tried to set me on some path of your own making, like every other master I've served. You didn't. There's honour to that."

The Elder Brother wrinkled his brow. "From you, Sandor Clegane, that was almost a compliment. I am glad you've learned to understand mercy; may you find it often on the road ahead. I will keep you in my prayers, Sandor. I hope you find all you seek."

 

 

* * *

"All right," said Sandor that evening. "Let's talk about this plan of yours."

"I'm not ready to go," Sansa blurted immediately. 

It was the Hound who frowned at her, a too-familiar flash of annoyance crossing his face. "What are you waiting for?" he grunted. "Spring?"

"No," she sulked. "I don't know how to get off the island yet. I've only been her a few days. I haven't found an excuse to watch the shore so I can learn the path."

Sandor wrinkled his nose. "You don't want for ambition, I'll give you that. I've been here six moons and haven't puzzled that out. How much time do you think you've got, girl?"

"You asked my plan," Sansa shrugged. "That's what it was before you offered to help me. What would _you_ suggest?"

"Too risky to bribe a boatman, but a boat's the easiest way for certain. That's how they brought both of us over, though I was flat on my back at the time." She saw his face fall. "Fuck."

"What?"

It was clear he'd spotted some pitfall in the plan.

"I'll have to leave Stranger.  _Fuck._ " He glanced up at her, sullen but not exactly angry. "Don't look at me like that, little bird. I'm not like to change my mind over the damned horse."

 

 _I'm asking more of him than I knew,_ she realised.  _And he agreed all the same._

 

"I appreciate what you're doing for me, that's all," she said aloud. She hesitated. "Will you miss it here?"

Sandor looked her over, his expression softening. "No," he said at last. "No more than you, I expect."

"I've only been here a few days."

"I've only been here a few moons. Makes no matter how long I've been here if I don't belong."

She nodded slowly. She could understand that. "Nowhere's felt like home to me since Winterfell."

Sandor said nothing at first, but as she looked at him with an expectant air he buckled. "Iwas about the same age you were, when I left my family lands. I was glad enough to go. Gregor'd have killed me if I didn't, soon or late. But it wasn't always a terrible place, not when I was young."

"How did you bear it?" she asked quietly.

His stare was piercing. "Bear having a shit family? Can't miss what i've never had, girl. That happy home you wanted to build for yourself - I haven't known something like that. But I'd give much and more to make sure you get it, in time."

 

His earnestness sent a surge of warmth through Sansa. _Yes, I could come to care for this man,_  she decided _._  Her heart ached for him, to have never known the love and security that had surrounded her as a Stark of Winterfell. It seemed unlikely that she would eventually be the person to bring joy to his future, but she wished desperately that  _someone_ would. _His tender side is not so well-hidden now._  Sansa would not be the only woman who could look beyond his scars.

 

"I'd you to know that kind of happiness yourself," she said timidly, hoping he would not read too much into her words.

Sandor gave her a faint smile. "I don't need as much as all that to be content, little bird. I'm happy enough now with you chirping at me."

It was so  _sad_ to her that he aimed so low, the quiet smile beneath his scars marking how humble his dream were. She wanted to take his hand, kiss him again even; she wanted to give him all the feelings he'd stirred in her the evening before. The memory set her skin to tingling again. She'd welcome that feeling back herself.

Sansa crawled onto the straw pallet to sit next to him. Sandor Clegane looked down at her, his eyes shining appreciatively, and his huge hand engulfed hers, incredibly gentle despite its size. Sansa trembled to think of his strength; to realise how easily he could press her down and take her - how he might even think that's what she wanted, given that she'd just crawled onto the bed to kiss him.

_It isn't what I want, though... is it?_

Her eyes fell to his legs, outstretched with booted feet; his thigh was as thick as her waist. He was _huge._ All the same, the two of them would never have reached this juncture if she didn't trust him - but how far should she stretch that trust?

 

She felt his lips on her jaw, realising that in turning, she had presented one side of her neck to him. He made his way down towards her collarbone, breath hot against her pulse point, and when he placed his palm on her waist he must have felt her tense up.

"Don't worry, little bird," he mumbled. He pulled away to look her in the eyes, searchingly. Her heart was pounding, but the nervousness she felt was closer to anticipation than to dread. "I won't ask for anything you aren't eager to give me. If you want nothing, then that's what I'll want too."

"No," she said, making her mind up as she spoke, "I want this."

Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, heavy under hollow cheeks, and then she kissed the scarred corner of his mouth. He twitched a small smile before burying his face in her hair and returning to her neck.

 

* * *

 

Her declaration notwithstanding, the girl was still stiff and uncomfortable beneath his attentions. Sandor's heart was pounding. He wasn't sure if her awkwardness was down to his own clumsy fumblings or her nerves. Neither was a flattering prospect. He was moving slowly, exploring with fingers or lips, never both at once. Sansa squeezed his hand from time to time but made no move of her own.

"Sandor-"

He froze, bracing himself for rejection.

"I... I don't know what to do," he heard her say uncertainly. "I've never... this is new to me."

 _Nobody's ever been fucking tender to her,_ he realised. Truth be told, this was uncharted territory to him, too, but his sword-hand itched to think of Sansa used as shoddily as the women he'd been with before. He'd once pushed her onto a bed with a blade at her throat and she remembered it with admiration. 

He wasn't sure what to say; the quiet stretched on and on.

 

Sandor focussed on the feeling of her soft hand held snugly in his. He could feel the gentle beating of her pulse under his fingers. He'd felt it jump when he nipped at her skin. He closed his eyes, afraid to look at her when he finally spoke again.

"When I kissed you," he began reluctantly, "did you feel anything? Apart from where I was touching you, I mean. Like a shiver, or a thrill?"

"Yes," she whispered.

Sandor released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "A good thrill?"

"I think so," Sansa stammered. "Yes," she finished, more firmly. "It felt good. Very good."

He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles, unable to acknowledge his relief with words. "That's what you're supposed to feel when..." He moved his mouth, at a loss again. Sansa saved him. 

Her hand was back on his cheek, drawing his gaze to her pretty face again. There was a sparkle of mischief in her eyes to join the softness.

"When the lea is being tilled and nourished?" she quoted.

Laughter hissed from him, breaking his disquiet. "More or less, little bird. Not that any ploughing has to be involved," he added hastily. "It's pleasant enough to touch like this for its own sake."

"I understand," smiled Sansa reassuringly.

 

She kissed him softly; long and lingering, the sweet clean smell of her filling his nostrils.  _I don't deserve her_ , he thought, amazed anew by her affection. Her nose grazed along his cheekbone, her breath warm on his earlobe. She nipped it.

 _I don't deserve her_ , he thought again, desire blazing white-hot in his belly.

"Is this where your silver tongue is supposed to come in?" she murmured.

"You realise what you're asking for, little bird?" he rumbled. He shifted on the pallet, breeches feeling uncomfortably restrictive all of a sudden. The boast felt incredibly ill-advised now that he might have to deliver on its promise.

"I'd like to find out," Sansa said hopefully. 

 _Oh, gods_. The look in her eyes was everything he'd dreamt of: her eyes, their deep liquid blue made dark with want - a want he'd not fully accepted that she could feel for him. His control was slipping.

 

* * *

 

Sandor's hand fisted in her hair as he claimed her with his mouth. Sansa cried out softly in surprise:  _this_ was the kiss as she remembered it. Hard and almost cruel; possessive as much as it was passionate, as the Hound pressed her beneath him onto the pallet. It left her breathless and bereft all the same when he abandoned her mouth to admire her body, stroking the curve of a breast and the plane of her belly.

Where his legs lay against her she became aware of the hardness in his breeches. She wondered if he could tell that she was excited, too.

His fingers skimmed up the back of her calf and Sansa gasped aloud when the hollow behind her knee proved unexpectedly sensitive. She propped herself up on her elbows to get a look at what Sandor was doing, feeling a little less exposed than when she was flat on her back. The left side of his face was all she could see, its scars indistinct in the flickering shadows cast by the fire. His hand found her left hip as Sandor bent to plant a light kiss on her right thigh. Another shuddering gasp escaped her. She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but the thrill she now recognised as arousal was building and her breath was coming shorter. 

The first kiss was followed by another, higher up on her thigh, while Sandor's thumb stroked arcs back and forth over her hipbone. Each kiss was a little harder and deeper than the last; each new location pushed the hem of her dress a little higher until only her smallclothes covered her modesty.

"Do you trust me?" he murmured hoarsely, a hand braced on each hip.

Sansa's stomach twisted almost painfully with trepidation. She realised she _hadn't_ known what she was asking for just minutes before, but whatever Sandor was working towards, she didn't want him to stop. She responded instinctively to a signal she couldn't identify and began to wriggle free of her smallclothes.

"This won't hurt, will it?" she asked, as bravely as she could manage when she felt so exposed.

The Hound chuckled softly.  "Not a bit, little bird. But when something feels good, you'll need to tell me."

 

Sansa knew very well that men enjoyed a woman's mouth almost as much as her body, but she'd never guessed that women could be pleased in the same way. Her breath stilled in a wracking sob when Sandor's tongue darted between her lips, sending a bolt of intense sensation stabbing through her. It wasn't exactly pleasure, but it certainly wasn't anything like pain. A kiss followed, placed on the same sensitive spot between her legs. Sandor's lips started to move, sucking very lightly; a shiver ran through her. The thrill was set to smouldering in her belly once again.

Gods, there was so much she hadn't understood about what passed between men and women. The odd ridge of scar where his lips met his burns brought an extra fillip to the divine friction. Sansa collapsed down off her elbows and let her eyes fall shut, giving herself over to the sensation. She hadn't known anything could feel so  _good_. "Please, please," she gasped, alarmed at how wanton her voice sounded to her own ears. Sandor's tongue circled her in slow, even sweeps while the varying pressure of his lips added to the chaos at her core.

Her hand groped blindly towards him and she lifted her head an inch. An extraordinary sight greeted her: her legs draped over a massive pair of shoulders, and between them all that was visible was a head of straight black hair and dark scars - and grey eyes locked on her face, which she realised now must be twisted appallingly with emotion. Sansa found she didn't care. Her fingers tangled in Sandor's hair, answering her desperate need to anchor herself against him. There was no priority greater than getting closer to the sensation that was building; for all the urgent flexing of the muscles in her stomach, the only force in the world that mattered was the man between her legs, serving her. His exquisite ministrations shifted a little, tongue flicking lightly and quickly over her sweet spot.

"Sandor, _yes,_ " she moaned breathily.

Below her, his eyes went almost black before his head dipped low and threw himself into his task. She remembered his sole instruction before he began, and did her best to guide him.

"A little higher- oh, gods. _Exactly_ like that. Please. Please don't stop."

The tension ratcheted higher with every perfect lick, and in the quiet of their cell Sansa heard herself crooning his name wantonly. She had to force herself to breathe properly, gasping to fuel her rise as far as it would go, her blood racing in her ears as she pounded towards the precipice-

Sansa cried out wordlessly when the wave of ecstasy crashed through her. Her body was far beyond her control, bucking and writhing rhythmically with each fresh hit of pleasure. Somehow, Sandor kept his mouth locked on her throughout the turmoil, steering her through her peak until all that remained was a sated wreck. It could only have lasted for a moments, but Sansa felt as weak and spent as if she'd run the length of the Kingsroad. 

When she was at last able to think clearly, the Hound lay on his side next to her on the straw pallet. A knuckle smoothed down the hair at her temple; the clear affection on his face transformed it almost beyond recognition. Could she imagine tending to him with such care if she ever... if they ever... ?

Sansa realised then that while half of her wanted to obey her heavy lids and rest, the other part of her was impatient to repay the favour. His manhood lay hard and heavy against her leg, though the thrill that had given her earlier was much weaker than before. Truth be told, the urge to please him had more to do with honour than lust on this side of her climax. "How can I..."

 

"Shhh, quiet now," he said. "Get some rest, little bird."

She stroked his side and buried her face in his chest, hoping he understood her gratitude.

"You still want to leave at first light?"

His words rumbled in his chest; Sansa felt them as much as heard them. She nodded into him.  

"Then I have a few matters to put in order. I'll be back soon."

 

Sansa wasn't ready to release him just yet, but put her petulance to one side. She'd have a chance to thank him properly before long, though the idea frightened and excited her in equal measure. She squeezed him as tightly as she could manage, and said, "Thank you, Sandor. For... for everything."

 

* * *

 

 

He led her along the shore path in the darkness before dawn. There was no telling who else might have risen early, and it was the surest way to the landing dock without being seen. The little bird was shy and subdued; he guessed she was abashed by how completely she'd come undone in front of him. His jaw still ached, but it had been absolutely worth it. It seemed he'd eavesdropped on the right conversations in the barracks over the years, for his every hesitant action had earned exactly the response he wanted. It brought a self-satisfied smile to his face just to think of it. 

 _Could I make her sing like that with just my cock?_ he wondered. He'd trade any lordship offered for the chance to find out.

 

 

Sandor prised the lid from an empty barrel on the pier, where he'd stowed his belongings overnight, and hauled out his hauberk and his old boiled leather jerkin. The jerkin smelt musty and damp after six moons of inept storage in the stables. His armour would fit awkwardly beneath the brown robe, but there was no helping it. He cast his sword into the bobbing rowboat and offered his hand to the little bird. She climbed in daintily, a spot of colour appearing in her cheeks when their eyes met. Fitting the oars to their rests, he settled himself on the bench and stretched.

At his meaningful nod, Sansa unlooped the rope from the boat's mooring, and Sandor began to row.

The tide was going out, pulling the surface of the water flat. The mouth of the Trident stretched well over two miles across, with the Quiet Isle closest to the Saltpans side. The currents were treacherous and changeable, however the narrower channel between the Isle and the northern bank was less vulnerable to the shifting sands and mudflats than the expanse at their backs. Although the brown, brackish water seethed with lines of white foam, Sandor could see none of the tranquil stripes that denoted a strong current to trouble their crossing. The sky was overcast, but mercifully the wind had dropped overnight. Even with his bad leg, they ought to make landfall by full sunrise.

Wistfully, he stared out past the septry towards the far southern bank, where the tower at Darry perched on the hillside. It was so much closer to their goal than Saltpans. Between Sandor's scars and Baelish's spies, Saltpans was far too risky for them to take ship there. The ports of the Vale crawled with Littlefinger's catspaws, to hear Sansa tell it, so if they meant to take ship from the Bay of Crabs, that only left Maidenpool. The road there would be the riskiest part of their entire journey. They'd need to cross the Trident at Lord Harroway's town and follow the shore without being recognised. Sandor still wasn't sure if the gamble was worthwhile. It all hinged on how quickly Baelish discovered his "daughter" was missing - and how well Sandor could hide his face before they escaped the realm.

 

Sandor was pleased with himself - if sweating and tired - when they tied up at the far bank just as the sun broke the horizon. It was a welcome boost to his confidence that his leg had barely proved more than a niggle, though he knew it would ache far more than usual come sunset. He wondered how much of that was strength and how much was willpower; somehow, his reserves seemed to run a little deeper when the little bird met his eyes with that sweet, encouraging smile. Every lovedrunk fool pledging that a lady's love would strengthen his arm seemed less idiotic to him now.

She'd wrought a change in him in only a seven-night. He would have resented that, if he'd been in anyone else's power. He would have resented the whole concept, if he didn't _like_ the change she was bringing about.

A second boat belonging to the Order lay on the shore, tied up under an inexpertly-pegged oilcloth cover with the run-off streaming down the slope. Unsteadily, Sandor clambered from their little craft, dumping his sword and armour on the pier before he helped the little bird disembark.

"We should eat something," he rasped. The girl nodded and went rummaging through their supplies.

Sandor stared ruefully at his armour. The idea of stripping off in this cold was no more enticing than the thought of carrying his bloody armour around in his arms for a few hours. He was also dying for a piss. And something else was bothering him, too, something he couldn't put his finger on.

With a grunt of frustration, Sandor disentangled the jerkin and hauberk from one another, mail jingling above the lapping of the water. "I need to..." he jerked a finger in the direction of the bushes, perhaps fifty yards from the landing post. The woods over the road were nearer and denser, but stepping onto the road itself felt like a commitment he was not yet ready to make. While they stayed at the shoreline, at the bottom of the slope, they were not yet visible to anyone watching the road.

"All right," said the little bird.

Sandor limped off to change. He shuddered at the kiss of cold dew on bare skin.  _How in seven hells did I think we might make camp in the open?  We'll have to watch for inns... or unguarded septs, even. Anything for a bit of shelter._   Six moons with the Faith had made him soft. It barely bore thinking about. 

Despite the sour stink rising from his leathers, there was something reassuring about the familiar  _shing_  of mail every time he moved. The novice-robe strained a little over the backs of his arms, but otherwise it sat acceptably over the armour. It was like stepping into a comfortable memory, to emerge from the bushes clad as a warrior. The oddness of his weak leg was offset by the absence of a heavy sword on his hip. He was still unsure whether he should tie it on beneath his robe: it would give away his disguise to anyone who spared him a second glance, but could he really risk the road without a weapon close at hand?

 

It was at that moment Sandor realised what had been chafing him. 

 _The other boat._ _The puddle was too big to come from runoff from the oilcloth. Its keel was still wet. Someone crossed here late last night._

He might have brought her into a trap.

 

Sandor straightened and picked up his pace, glaring around watchfully to see shape separate itself from the gloom on the other side of the road. A second followed close behind. Sandor dove for his sword as the little bird looked up from her pack.

"Lady Sansa," called a familiar voice, sounding surprised. Sandor pulled up short. "And my novice. I was beginning to fear I had misread your intentions."

"Elder Brother," Sansa greeted him, as if the holy man's presence was the most natural thing in the world. Sandor said nothing though; he'd gone numb looking at the other shape.

"It seemed remiss to let you take to the road on foot when there was a perfectly good mount standing idle." The Elder Brother shot Sandor a stern look before handing him the reins. "It would be most appropriate if you continued to call him Driftwood."

Sandor nodded in acknowledgement, but made no promises. His huge black courser was still as foul-tempered as his master had been, but had learned enough decorum to allow the Elder Brother to handle him - if gingerly. 

"How did you get him across?" Sandor frowned.

"Brother Narbert walked him over to be shod last night at low tide. He will return with me by boat this evening."

Sandor suppressed an evil grin. He should have liked to see that. Proctor Narbert was the one who lost an ear trying to deprive Stranger of part of his own anatomy. Narbert had a sister wed to a blacksmith somewhere on the other side of Saltpans, Sandor remembered. 

"This arrived late last night, my lady," said the Elder Brother, handing Sansa a message. It bore a broken silver seal that Sandor guessed came from the Most Devout. Two smaller dots of fresher wax held it closed now. "I beg you not to open it until this evening. Until you are already on your path."

He met Sandor's eyes meaningfully while Sansa gave a single nod. "Thank you, Elder Brother. Will you break your fast with us?"

"No, child, though I thank you. I would speak to your companion before I take my leave."

 

Sandor felt his mouth harden into a thin line, but with a curt nod he followed the Elder Brother up onto the road.

"I didn't think she'd be with you," said the Elder Brother wearily. "When did you know?"

"The day she arrived," he said harshly. He'd tried to deny it, but he'd known in his bones. Just the way she moved was enough. "Did you think I wouldn't recognise her?"

"Disguised? Secluded? Called by a false name... I hoped she might come and go unnoticed." The Elder Brother stopped, looking Sandor straight in the eye. "I did not expect her to bring out any good in you. It may be that I was wrong."

To Sandor's surprise, the Elder Brother clasped his forearm. "Fare well, novice," he concluded. "Wherever your path takes you."

Sandor watched the brown brother all the way down the road, until his shape disappeared into a hollow and they were alone in the Riverlands.

 

When he lurched back to the little bird and their makeshift breakfast, he was surprised to find her sitting on the damp boards of the pier, booted feet dangling over the shore. The parchment was in her hand, edges ruffling in the breeze. _So much for waiting until this evening._  

Her hair shimmered, the clear morning light picking out strands that the dye had not covered. She turned to him, huge eyes brimming with tears.

"What now, little bird?" he asked. An iron fist gripped his chest.  _What fresh pain has the raven wrought?_

She handed him the message. It was indeed a bulletin from the Starry Sept in Oldtown. Sandor suspected such missives were only part of how the Elder Brother kept abreast of the war.

**_\---  
In addition to the great many slain in battle north of Winterfell, the Most Devout bid all of the Faithful pray for:_ **

**_The deliverance of the Stormlands from the Essosi invader, in particular those of the faithful who are held captive at Storm's End and Griffin's Roost.  
May the Warrior bring strength to those who fight on in the name of the rightful king._ **

**_The repose of the soul of_ _young Robert Arryn, the Lord of the Vale, a boy of nine and the only son of the late Jon Arryn and his wife the late Lysa of House Tully; dead of a long sickness.  
May the Stranger guide him to the halls of the Mother._ **

**_The repose of the soul of_** **Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and formerly the Bastard of Winterfell, slain in a mutiny.**  
**May he find the true faith in the halls of the Crone.**  
\---

Sandor's mouth opened and closed. 

_Fuck._

The ramifications swirled in his head. Even without the complication of a fresh war, this news set the cat amongst the pigeons where the Vale lords were concerned. Where did that leave Alayne Stone's betrothal? What would happen to Baelish?

Sitting heavily next to the little bird, Sandor put such thoughts from his mind. He did not know Alayne Stone. He knew Sansa Stark. Sansa Stark wouldn't give a bent copper for her politics. She was mourning her bastard brother and her little cousin. He wrapped an arm around fragile shoulders and said nothing.

_I have no idea how to make this right. No more than I knew how to comfort her damned sister after the Red Wedding._

 

The sun was well up now, its cold light glinting off the tears that spilled silently down the girl's face. She did not sob. She did not tremble. At last, she sighed and lifted her head from his shoulder.

"Your brother on the Wall..." he grumbled awkwardly, before trailing off. "Is there still a reason for you to go there?"

"No. Of course not," she said quietly. "There's nothing left for me in the North."

Scrubbing her eyes with the back of her sleeve, Sansa Stark got to her feet and padded back along the boards. To Sandor's surprise, she began to pack her bundle with deft actions.

"Little bird," he said gently, "Where are you rushing off to now?"

Sansa approached him with a decisive set to her jaw, the one he'd recognised before. Her eyes rimmed with red, her cheeks pale in the cold, she held out a bread roll filled with butter and honey; the breakfast she'd promised when they first arrived. She cocked her head to one side, sounding almost impatient.

"I thought that was obvious. Aren't we going to Pentos?"


End file.
